


Malady Mind

by clockworkIncendiary



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Dubious Alien Biology, M/M, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-04 08:28:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1772407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworkIncendiary/pseuds/clockworkIncendiary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Tell me, Ratchet, how far are you willing to go to save him?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This follows cannon to MTMTE #16 and diverges from there...

_You’ve got suckers’ luck_  
_Have you given up?_  
_Does it feel like a trial?_  
_Does it trouble your mind the way you trouble mine?_  
     - “Exile Vilify” The National 

     Drift likes to consider himself a mech of faith. He hasn’t always been, but recent events have made him reconsider. Tell him that Primus doesn’t exist and he will simply smile and tell you his own theories. Tell him he’s on a fool’s errand looking for the Knights of Cybertron, and he will tell you with completely earnest conviction that he will find them. Or at least help find them. Ask him why, and he will tell you it’s because he believes it so.

     Cause sometimes belief is all you have left.

     He tries to be better… but he can always feel the hateful little part of him that is still Deadlock whispering in the back of his mind; all unease and hate and bloodlust.

 _Kill Kill Kill._

     Sometimes he feels he will snap, he’s stretched himself so thin. It’s gotten better since Messatine, though. He remembers the sickening fear when he felt himself dying again, and the threat of the DJD. Asking Ratchet... He remembers Ratchet holding his hand and refusing to offline him.  


     Most of all, he remembers the absolute terror he felt when he saw Pharma turn his guns on the medic. It scared him in a way he tries not to think about too much.  


     He spends more time with Ratchet now, when he’s not doing what his position of third in command demands of him or attempting to teach Rodimus sword forms. He likes spending time with Ratchet. They are… friends? He guesses. It’s different than his friendship with Rodimus. He feels less pressured to please Ratchet like the way he does with Rodimus. It’s reminiscent of what he had with Wing… Ratchet has known him since he was just a druggie gutter punk. Knew the kinds of things he had to do to survive. The services he offered.  


     He remembers when he woke up in Ratchet’s drop-in clinic in The Dead End. The little speech Ratchet gave him about being special. How he offered him a cube of energon and then rubbed his back when he downed it too fast because his starving tanks backed up. His body retaliated by trying to heave up the newly consumed fuel. An air bubble burnt its way back up his intake and caused a little energon to dribble out of his mouth. Ratchet never made fun of him for it; just handed him a rag to wipe his mouth when he stopped spluttering in distress.  


     In the end, his mind always returns to the words that Ratchet said to him. _You’re special - I can tell. Now get out there and prove me right._ He told Ratchet something about a relinquishment clinic. Instead, he joined the Decepticons.  


     He wishes he had done something else sometimes for reasons beyond his own conscience.  


     Drift likes Ratchet. He likes his dry, dark sense of humour. He likes the caring person Ratchet is beneath the layers of crankiness and snark, and the fact that he just doesn’t give up. He likes the way the silicon around his optics crinkles when he smiles and the way his vocalizer rasps when he laughs.  


     Sometimes Drift wants… He wants to…-  


     He wants.  


++++

  


     Ratchet is an older mech. He can be a bit cranky and sometimes drinks a little too much. He is a medic and knows he’s a damn good one at that. It was what he was created to do. He likes his function; there is nothing the would rather do. There is something completely satisfying about bringing another bot back from the brink of death or healing a stranger.  


     He likes the smell of hot solder and the harsh cleansers of the medbay. He likes comforting his patients as they heal.  


     He even has a quiet fondness for the less glamourous parts of his job, such as cleaning the surgical equipment and synthesizing new parts. It makes him feel like he matters, like he can do something worthwhile.  


     He nearly lost that not so long ago. As with all things, his hands were failing due to age. He tried keeping them in the best shape possible, but vorns upon vorns of war accelerated inevitable metal fatigue and joint failure. It had hurt something deep inside him that he would live on, but be unable to do his calling.  


     Until a certain white sports car had to be a big damn hero and save the day. Ratchet would have thought he planned it, had they both not been falling apart as rust consumed them alive. He snorts aloud when he had this thought, as if anyone would willingly subject themselves to the rust plague.  


     He’s thankful for his new hands. He really is. It’s just…  


     It’s just around Delphi he stopped seeing Drift as just the ex-con. A murderer. The flakey spiritualist who could kill them all the day he snapped.  


     He was those, but not really. They were all murderers. The war saw to that.  


     No. He saw Drift differently now, the kid was a friend, someone who he was starting to genuinely care deeply about. Not that he could easily admit that to anyone. 

     Little slagger had wormed his way into Ratchet’s spark when he wasn’t looking.  


     It does him good to spend time with Drift, even if they do argue a lot. Drift is so maddeningly alive. So full of hope and convictions in his own beliefs. Sometimes he thinks to himself that he wishes he had the kid’s faith. But he can’t and he hasn’t believed in a god for a very long time.  


     Instead, he enjoys his time with Drift, whether they are bickering in the medbay or drinking at Swerve’s. He likes to watch him, especially when his eyes light up when he talks about some foolish fairy tale. But the little world that was the _Lost Light_ was flipped on its head.  


     Overlord happened. They tried to pick up the pieces. And the kid, no, his friend. His friend with the crooked smile and easy, quiet charm was gone. A traitor many said. 

     Banished by the one who was supposedly his best friend. Sometimes Ratchet really despises Rodimus.  


     Some nights, when he’s off shift, he watches the endless night out his hab suite window. He wonders what happened to Drift as he watches the stars. He catches himself looking for a little shuttle, even if he knows he will not find it. But it makes him feel better to watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally got the nerve to post this; I started writing in January this first bit has been finished since then...  
> I want to thank my glorious beta 9tfs83 (her tumblr cause she doesn't have an account here) for sticking with me through this since I first texted the original idea and putting up with my constant obsessing about giant robots, despite not reading the comics herself.  
> I plan on doing an every other week update, but it depends on how busy we are.


	2. Chapter 1

_My sword is dull from the drag_  
 _I am the wounded carried_  
 _I’m not carrying the wounded_  
 _Healer, did you get my call? __  
\- “A Simple Thought That Changed Everything” To Speak of Wolves_

     Just a little over a year. It had been a little over a year since Drift had been banished from the _Lost Light_. A year was just a blink of an eye for a race that could live nigh on forever, but it seemed like a long time. The crew moved on in the wake of Overlord’s rampage, picking up the broken pieces where they could and mourning the dead. 

     Ratchet and the other medics were busy with the survivors, especially Ultra Magnus. Ratchet took it upon himself to repair him - something he could completely focus on. After multiple surgeries and intermediate periods of touch and go, they had stabilized their superior officer. He made a very slow recovery. Soon enough, things were back to the normal chaotic routine in the search for the Knights of Cybertron. 

     Rodimus had returned to his normal, cocksure self after several weeks of brooding, especially after he learned that Magnus was on the mend. He refused to mention his banished friend, though. 

     Ratchet changed too. To most of the crew the same old crotchety medical officer; he changed in small ways that the mechs who knew him noticed. Not that there were many who were close to him; just his apprentices, Rung, and maybe a few others who knew him from earth (such as Sunstreaker, but they no longer kept close contact). Most of his close friends, like Jazz, Ironhide, and Wheeljack had stayed on Cybertron. Orion was who knows where.

     His irritableness became less of a facade and more genuine, most mechs, not understanding his usual bluster was more bark than bite, noticed no difference. He drank more and spent most of his time in the medbay. He threw himself into his work; falling back on old habits that hadn’t emerged again until the end of the war when his hands had started failing - habits that Drift and the others had just started working him out of. 

     Rung diagnosed him with depression. Ratchet told him to frag off; he was fine.

     Oddly enough, Ratchet and Rung got along surprisingly well. Most would believe they wouldn’t get along, considering their differences in personalities, but the opposite was true. Rung’s quiet, gentle demeanor complimented Ratchet’s bluster quite well. Like most of his close friends, Rung was much less hotheaded than Ratchet. He could at least generally cajole Ratchet out of the medbay for some energon. First Aid usually just brought him a cube.

     Which was why the docking party thought it was odd that Ratchet should join them when they were going to the space station to trade for supplies.

     “Just needed to get out for awhile; and First Aid can handle anything that comes up in my absence,” he groused when asked.

     He wanted to look for some medical supplies while he had the chance. They were running low, and while he could have delegated the task to First Aid, or even another crew member, he had run out of things to do. All check ups and appointments had been taken care of. All of the med-bay’s tools were clean and sorted and inventory had been taken. He had even mostly caught up on his paperwork for once, and therefore, needed something to occupy his time with.

     The spaceport was busy and bustling with activity; many different species called this place their home and hawked their wares for a living. Ratchet milled around the area of the market that contained medical supplies. He traded some old equipment for some new supplies, particularly raw ore for the micro-forage. With the crew, it seemed that he was always needing to fabricate replacement parts. He subspaced his purchases for safe keeping and would later add them to the medbay inventory when he returned to the ship. 

     There was still quite a bit of time before the _Lost Light_ took off again, so Ratchet decided that he may as well take a nice stroll while he had the chance. He was shocked when he rounded the corner and caught a glimpse of familiar white plating.

      _No, it couldn’t be…_

     Ratchet reset his optics to make sure was seeing things correctly. No, he was seeing things just fine. He worked his way closer.

     “Kid?” 

     Ratchet tapped him on the shoulder. The mech jumped and turned around, hands automatically flying to the blades at his hips. He eyed Ratchet warily for a moment before relaxing his guard.

     “Ratch?” 

     Drift looked stunned, and maybe a little nervous.

     Drift stood before him looking worse for wear. His white plating was scuffed, and the place where his Autobot badge had rested left an ugly grey marr on his chest where the paint had been stripped to the protoform. His optics were dim instead of their usual bright aqua. And, according to Ratchet’s scanners, he weighed at least fifteen point three percent less than when he had been banished; this in particular being a glaring sign of malnutrition. His body was starting to break down - parts of his armour being dissolved for the metals and minerals his body needed, as well as coolant and other fluids being recycled for energy.

     Ratchet stared him down, icy blue optics narrowing. He reached outwards and snagged Drift by the wrist. Drift made a funny little squeaking noise as he was caught and dug his heels into the ground.

     “C’mon, let’s get a meal in you,” he grumbled as he tugged Drift along.

     Drift protested for a little while before following Ratchet. Despite the sudden compliance, Ratchet kept a grip on him as he maneuvered them through the busy streets to a bar. It was far enough from the _Lost Light_ that her crewmembers wouldn’t probably be there. The crew tended to favor bars that were close to where the ship docked. 

     Ratchet pushed Drift into a table towards the back and gave him a look that commanded he should stay put. He fetched energon from the bartender, a decent mild midgrade, and returned. He slid the cube towards Drift, who had been eyeing it since its purchase.

     An awkward silence descended upon the small table; neither really knowing what to say. Drift sipped at his cube quietly. Ratchet took another moment to study the condition his friend was in, medical protocols kicking in and demanding he do something. He noticed two of Drift’s fingers on his right hand were set incorrectly. The wires had been taped poorly, and the thin armour had been sloppily bent back into place.

     “Give me your hand,” Ratchet demanded as he scooted his chair closer to Drift’s and held out his own expectantly.  
“What?” came the reply from Drift as he was startled from his thoughts.

     “Your hand. It needs fixing; if you leave it that way, it will cause you problems later, you know. The plating could eventually saw its way through your nerve wires the way you have it taped. Then you could lose those two fingers to rust, which would cost you the use of your hand.”

     It was a flippant response. The scenario could happen, but it wasn’t quite as likely as he made it seem. And his hand would probably still work after the loss of two fingers, but he didn’t need to know that. It was more to get Drift to allow him to work on him than anything; sometimes scare tactics worked to his advantage and it at least broke the silence.

     Drift stared for a moment, processing the data, before switching the cube to his other servo and laying the injured one on the table. Ratchet cradled the injured hand in his, red digits firm, but gentle on Drift’s black ones. He transformed one of his fingers into a tool and efficiently popped thin armour off of his fingers, revealing the delicate wiring beneath. When he was done, there was a neat little pile of armour and another of screws. He would give them a quick cleaning with the solvent he kept in his subspace before reattaching them. 

     He gently blew out debris from the injury with a can of air and swabbed over it to make sure it was clean. He reset Drift’s fingers properly in their sockets, and retaped the frayed wires with smooth, clinical movements. Auto-repair would have eventually fixed the damage, but it would heal much more quickly now. For the most part he worked in silence.

     “How’s the crew?” Drift asked shyly.

     “Well enough, I suppose.”

     Ratchet’s reply was clipped, not out of anger, but because he was paying more attention to his work and the results his scanners were throwing back at him, than the conversation. 

     He carefully reattached the armour after reshaping a few of the pieces with his fingers. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the best he could do without access to the medbay. One of the screws that attached at a joint was stripped. He frowned and fished around in his subspace for one of the spares he kept there. 

     “And...and Magnus?”

     “Survived.”

     “What about you?”

     Ratchet paused, quirking an optical ridge, “Do I look damaged to you?”

     He finished reassembling Drift’s hand, but continued to tinker with it. Tightening a screw here, realigning a wire there. He gently took a small piece of gauze and wiped the seam along Drift’s knuckles out that was greasy and full of dust. After one last go over and quick manipulation of each finger, he released the hand from his grasp, satisfied it was in proper working order.

     Drift flexed his fingers several times as he felt out the new repairs. For the first time since they encountered each other in the marketplace, Drift smiled.  


     “You didn’t have to do that, you know, but thanks.”

     Ratchet nodded and settled more comfortably in his chair. The silence descended again, but it was less awkward now. Drift finished his cube, and they still continued to sit in each others company. 

     Eventually Drift quietly asked, “You aren’t mad?”

     Ratchet thought for a moment.

     “No.”

     He had been… after Drift had been banished and the magnitude of the situation fully sank in. Three dead and many others wounded, several critical. Not to mention that Drift had apparently been one of the reasons Overlord had been on the ship. Oddly enough, of all the things he could be angry at Drift for, that was not the one. Something seemed… off when he confessed his sins to the crew. He couldn’t quite believe that Drift and the Duobots were the sole perpetrators. It would take more that a commanding officer and two grunts who died shortly after take off to pull off something of that magnitude, especially with Red Alert running security. The whole thing didn’t sit well with him.

     Drift looked stunned.

     “I-I...”

     And then all Pit broke loose.

     “Raiders!” someone screamed before the entrance to the bar exploded in fire, and the world erupted in a cacophony of sound. Drift and Ratchet were both knocked off their feet by a second explosion. Drift scrabbled to get up. Laserfire flashed. A heavily armoured organic with four arms crashed to the ground beside them and howled in a dying rage. Its left shoulder was crushed, and deep maroon blood was dripping through the mangled metal. It hauled itself back to its feet and charged back into the battle before being felled by laserfire. 

     It was a small, but well manned group of raiders.

     Drift tugged Ratchet way from the scene. More screams and battle cries sounded around them as the space-port was sacked. 

     They raced through the chaos, Drift unconsciously making his way towards the _Lost Light_. They rounded a corner. A small mech who was part of the raid, the white emblem of the raiders standing in stark relief to his brilliant red chestplates, turned towards them and fired his rifle.

     Time seemed to slow as one bullet was fired with the intent to kill. Drift didn’t even have time to scream. He wobbled for a few steps before collapsing in a clattering heap of white metal; his body not even realizing it had been shot at first.

     The mech turned his gun towards Ratchet, but was too slow having wasted precious moments watching Drift fall. Ratchet barreled into him, using his greater mass to send him flying.

     He turned to check on Drift. The bullet shattered Drift’s optic before shooting out the back of his helm and assuredly causing Primus-knows-what damage to his processors. Ratchet nearly laughed; it was absurd - a one in a million shot that only left minor visual damage - a wrecked optic with a little damage around the socket and a relatively small hole in the back of the helm. And with a real bullet, no less! He had seen similar injuries with precision laser guns, but rarely did actual ballistics leave such minor damage, due to the way they punched through Cybertronian metal. The real damage, the damage that worried Ratchet, was the path it took through Drift’s processors.  


     Ratchet took one more look over Drift, transformed into his alt mode, loaded him in, and raced towards the ship, sirens blaring. He commed ahead to tell First Aid to prepare the medbay.

     “Already ahead of you. I’m getting notices for incoming casualties.”

     Ratchet made it back to the _Lost Light’s_ shuttle just before it took off. It was now ferrying the injured back to the ship and returning with more crew to help fight off the raiders.

     He spent the ride back in his alt mode, sensing some of the mechs staring at him. Thankfully, they were mostly busy with themselves and none were critically injured.

     None save Drift, that was.

++++

     The medbay was a flurry of focused chaos by the time Ratchet made it back; thankfully, the critical suite was both ready and unoccupied. He would have to thank his staff later.

     “Aid, help! Ambulon and Hoist can cover whatever comes in,” he called as he deposited Drift on a med slab and tugged the surgical curtains around the berth for privacy.

     First Aid hissed through his face mask when he saw who was lying there. 

     “Why is he here?” he whispered.

     “Doesn't matter. Prepare for surgery, he’s critical and we need to get him stabilized. Now!” Ratchet ordered.

     What mattered now was trying to save Drift’s life, consequences be damned. They could be dealt with later.

     Ratchet got First Aid to set Drift up on an energon drip and monitoring machines while he cleaned his helm. He would have to remove Drift’s cranial armour to see the extent of the damage and he did not want any more debris making their way into his central processor. 

     He reached into a container to pull a small, sterilized bolt cutter out of blue medical solvent. With a flick of his wrist, the remaining drops of solvent flew across the room. He got to work cutting off the bolts that attached the armour to Drift’s helm. Processors weren’t meant to be exposed; therefore, several layers of bolted-together armour protected them. 

     By the time he and First Aid stabilized Drift and finished investigating the damage, the battle was over, and Hoist and Ambulon had completed repairs on the crew members who needed it. Ratchet had given them the rest of the orn off, unless there was another emergency. He decided it was best to keep Drift’s presence on the ship on the down low, especially until he could figure out what to do with Rodimus and Magnus. Drift had been relatively accepted, but not necessarily well trusted or liked before the Overlord incident. The crew had a long memory that rarely forgave and even more rarely forgot. Ratchet’s fierce protectiveness for his patients and friends made him wary of what the others might try, especially since Drift was vulnerable.

     He had taken a few moments to remove the short swords and their scabbards from Drift’s hips and the Great Sword from the channel that ran down his back while he was waiting for some test results. He had felt a faint sting of energy from the Great Sword when he removed it. He’d locked them in the locker in his office. He knew how precious they were to Drift; they should be safe there.

     It took hours to stabilize Drift, and even now Ratchet kept most of his sensors attuned to him; helm wounds were tricky, especially ones like his. He had replaced Drift’s optic and had welded the cheek strut back together. Some glass fragments from his optics had gotten into the soft wires that connected optics and other sensors to his brain module, causing additional damage from shorts. He had repaired what he could; removing the fragments he could find - he had them in a little vial now. He replaced a few pieces of hardware that were destroyed beyond anything Drift’s repair nanites could fix and would be dangerous to leave in, namely one of the fans that cooled his processors. He was reluctant to touch some of it; if Drift’s body could repair and remake some connections on its own, then that would be better for him. Replacing circuit boards risked further damage and potentially doing more harm than good.

     As for the moment, Drift was in deep medical stasis until Ratchet could think of what was best for him. He wiped his hands over his face. Since Drift was stable, he would leave picking through his coding until the morning when he could start with a fresh mind. He was no mnemosurgen, and therefore would not know the true extent of memory loss, if there was any, but he could at least make sure there were no critical errors that would cause a cascade failure when Drift tried to boot or otherwise function normally.

     He looked at Drift’s face; it was almost serene, as if he were in recharge. No ugly bullet wound or gaping optical socket to betray the injuries he had sustained earlier. It was times like these Ratchet felt truly conflicted. His medical programming already extrapolating what he already knew and was coming up with different forms of treatment. Some of them he dearly hoped he would not have to implement. 

     He was jolted from his thoughts by the medbay doors sliding open. Ultra Magnus stepped in and fixed him with a stern glare.

     “Scanners reported you returned with an unregistered spark signature. Is there anything you would like to tell me?” he asked with a frown. 

     Ratchet’s optics narrowed dangerously into icy blue slits.

     “Nothing, other than this is still my medbay, and the patients here are under my care.”

     A warning; not quite a threat. A reminder that this was the one place on the ship where Ratchet’s authority superseded Magnus’.They stared at each other for a long moment before Ratchet dropped his gaze. He clenched his fist and turned away from Magnus, trying to think of a way to make things work.  


     “I need to see, Ratchet.” Ultra Magnus said softly, coaxing.

     Ratchet sighed heavily and motioned for Magnus to follow. Magnus would win the argument anyway, and drawing it out would only make him irritated and less likely to listen. Not that he was likely to listen anyway. Magnus had disliked Drift before Overlord; he saw him as a dangerous security risk. Now… Now Ratchet didn’t really want to find out, despite the fact that he seemed to have to.

     Before he and Magnus made it back to critical condition, the medbay door hissed open again, this time allowing Rodimus to step in.

     “Of course,” Ratchet muttered darkly under his breath; he would have said Primus had it out for him if he believed in things like that.

     “Magnus! I was looking for you. Why are you down here in the medbay?” Rodimus questioned.

     “Ratchet has a patient with a spark signature not registered with the crew; I am trying to obtain his identity. He was just about to show me when you came in,” Magnus replied.

     Ratchet shot them both a look and wished he could just hide Drift somewhere. Or better yet, kick them both out of his medbay. But both were persistent in getting what they wanted, and he wasn’t sure who was worse. Rodimus was flat out annoying and Magnus… well, Magnus was like a force of nature when he thought some of his precious rules were being broken. 

     Ratchet reluctantly allowed them into the CC ward where he had Drift hooked up to various monitors. The one recording his spark pulses blipped steadily in the background.

     There was a sudden intake from Magnus.

     Ratchet blocked Magnus with a sharp clang of metal and stood protectively in front of Drift’s berth, engine snarling and armour bristling out in a threat display, completely unafraid of the mech that was probably twice his height and several times his weight. Both moved before they realized it, instincts kicking in before their minds fully registered everything. Ratchet continued to prevent Magnus from reaching Drift by stepping in front of him every time he moved.

     Rodimus watched with wide optics, but he quickly gathered himself and commanded: “Magnus, stop.”

     Rodimus looked cross, and maybe a little sad. He put a mollifying hand on Magnus’s back. Ratchet still stood between them and his patient, unwilling to give ground.

     “He is a risk to security, not to mention banished. He should be arrested. He -”

     “He’s injured and in need of care,” Ratchet interrupted vehemently.

     Rodimus pushed his way between them before things could dissolve into a shouting match.

     “Enough, both of you. Magnus, go back to your office; I will handle this. Ratchet, care to explain?”

     Magnus didn’t leave, but he at least backed off. Ratchet held his ground for a moment more before letting his armour smooth back down with a ripple. He looked very old and tired at that moment.

     “He was injured in the raid. I couldn’t just leave him.”

     And for Ratchet it was that simple. 

     “What’s exactly wrong with him? How long will it be until he can leave?” Rodimus asked, seeming to be willing to let Drift stay until he was healed. It wouldn’t go over well if the crew found out, but despite his actions months ago, some part of him still saw Drift as a friend. He couldn’t dredge up the necessary anger to banish him again, especially when he was so obviously injured.

     “Don’t know exactly. He was shot in the head. I’ve repaired most of the physical damage, but I don’t know what condition his mind is in. The shot could have damaged areas with ‘junk’ coding,” he air quoted at junk, “or he could have serious damage and never be able to function normally again. I won’t know until I’ve had time to go through his coding thoroughly.”

     Rodimus nodded, taking in the information. 

     “He can stay until he is fixed, just, like, don’t let anyone know for now, okay?”

      _Well duh._

     Ratchet couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief as his commanding officers left.

++++

     Ratchet picked through Drift’s coding the next morning. It was a mess, and took several orns to straighten it out. Ratchet worked quietly in the back of the medbay; so far only his staff, Rung, Rodimus, and Ultra Magnus knew of Drift’s presence on the ship. Rung only knew because of an accident - he had brought Ratchet an evening cube of energon and gone searching for him since he wasn’t in the main part of the medbay and didn’t respond when he checked his office.

     Thankfully, Rung could keep a secret and shared Ratchet’s concerns about the crew (despite wanting to think the best of them). 

     Ratchet hoped he caught all the errors in Drift’s coding. Funny thing about coding, he could see coding, and knew what it stood for. If it were a memory file, he couldn’t see the associated data. Fun little trick for patient privacy and he had no interest looking into mechs private lives anyway. 

     Seeing memories or even editing coding beyond what was medically necessary (mostly including boot sequences and pain receptors) would require something a bit more… invasive. Not saying he had never hacked a bot before, but it was something that he prefered to use strictly as a last resort. It was taxing on him, and almost never turned out well for the bot he performed it on unless the mech cleared Ratchet himself; he didn’t have a set of mnemosurgen’s needles. He only remembered doing it a few times during the war on ‘Cons when someone who was better at it was unavailable. He was a healer, not a hacker. And he didn’t reprogram mechs.

     Ratchet flipped the switch that would bring Drift out of stasis.

     He didn’t wake up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There may be a slight delay on the next chapter: my beta is on vacation and where she is doesn't have internet.  
> Oh, and the song at the top of the chapter is one of two that inspired this fic.


	3. Chapter 2

_Light a candle for me, I haven't yet gotten to the end of this maze ___  
 _There are no jeanie escapes, your rubs would all be in vain_  
 _But you could relieve me of my pain by lighting a fire in my name __  
-“Light a Candle for Me” The Bogmen_

      It became apparent over the orns that Drift was not going to wake up. His vitals were normal. He was healing as well as could be expected; although his auto-repair was slower than Ratchet would have liked, but that could be attributed to the malnutrition he suffered from. There wasn’t much Ratchet could do for that, other than wait for Drift’s body to replenish itself. Until then, his auto-repair would split its attention between Drift’s body and processors.

      He grumbled to himself about head injuries; each similar, yet completely different. Wasn’t like welding a broken femoral strut back together or patching a gash. That was easy. He could probably do that in recharge. Processor injuries on the other hand… well… Experience made things more manageable. Drift’s problem was almost the exact opposite of Rung’s injury. While Rung’s body had been “awake,” his mind had been unable to make connections. He had been in a type of waking coma. Drift on the other hand, showed processor activity as if he were in recharge, but his body refused to boot.

      It was immensely frustrating. Especially since all of his coding should have worked.

      He didn’t like thinking about it, but Ratchet started to prepare for long term care.

      Long term care meant Drift wasn't really getting better. Long term care meant Ratchet felt like he was giving up on him. 

      He remembered what one of his teachers had told him in the academy: Plan for the worst, hope the best. The rest is up to you.

      (Actually he had said the rest is up to Primus, but Ratchet thought he could do more for the living than some absentee god who didn’t seem to know or care about the plights of his creations, if he were real. And Ratchet believed he wasn’t.) 

      He wasn’t going to give up on Drift. Too many young soldiers had died under his hands, on his table. He had told too many everything would be alright and seen the hopeful light leave their eyes as their sparks guttered out under his hands. He had felt that last, desperate pulse of energy before their life was snuffed out for good. The war was over; he wasn’t going to lose another.

      His medic’s coding still forced him to prepare, though. Ratchet moved Drift out of the critical surgery suite, never knowing if it would be needed or not with this crew, and moved him into ICU. Thankfully, he still had curtains still set up from a previous patient who had argued him into letting him have them. Although Ratchet had more put them up to get him to shut up than the mech winning the argument. Anyway, it made it useful for keeping Drift out of sight until Ratchet could either come up with a better solution or get him fully functional. Rung said at least no one hid him under a bar. 

      Ah, yes. Rung had found out about that and wasn’t letting go of it anytime soon.

      Ratchet and his staff jointly agreed that it would be best to keep Drift out of stasis, since he would have a greater chance of waking up, even if it did slow down the healing process. He asked them to help him think of alternate care options; fresh minds were always welcome in cases like this. Ratchet also removed the intravenous energon drip and inserted a feeding tube down Drift’s intake instead. He hated the way he had to force Drift’s mouth open, fingers digging into pressure points on his jaw, and the way the tube felt as he guided it down his intakes. He could have kept Drift on a drip, but it would be better for him if his tanks digested the energon itself. Keep more of his body working and he would take in nutrients better that way.

      Ratchet’s main worry, besides the obvious, was the condition of Drift’s joints. Several times every orn, he (or his assistants if he was too busy) carefully manipulated all of Drift’s joints to keep them working smoothly. While he was fine for now, long periods of inactivity would cause them to grow stiff and possibly rust, the naturally occurring lubrication that came with movement drying up and the fluid in his hydraulics settling. It would be extremely painful when he woke up; not to mention the possible damage that could go along with it. It was also necessary to move him around so heavy metal plating did not continually press on fuel lines and soft circuitry- it could cause a pressure build up and perforate the thinner lines, as well as stretching the thicker ones. Neither was desirable. 

      Ratchet stood with a grunt; the cables in his back ached from a long day of being on his feet. It seemed like most of the crew had scheduled their appointments for that day and he had been finishing up the necessary reports for his files. He left his office, crossed the medbay in a few quick steps, and ducked through the curtains which shielded Drift from view.

      “You always make things difficult, don’t you?”

      He searched the unresponsive face for a long moment, and as he expected, there was no reply. He frowned and leaned against the edge of the berth, half sitting, half standing. It was funny; Drift looked almost like he was sleeping. Like he would open his bright blue optics at any moment, and probably say something utterly stupid about auras or miracles, and they would bicker and trade barbs until they either laughed or Ratchet stormed away.

      “Kid, you should know by now I think you're a fool, always jumping into things before looking. Would’ve thought you’d learned better by now.”

      He was silent for a long moment, a breath of air hissed out of his vents.

      “I’ve come to like seeing you. Yeah, I know, surprise, surprise, but… things change. You’re not the mech I thought you were. Wish I didn’t see you so much in here. In the medbay. ‘Cause it always seems like I’m welding your sorry aft back together. I wish you’d be a little more careful...” he trailed off into a mumble. 

     Sometime between when he began talking and finished he had placed his hand on Drift’s helm and began rubbing tiny circles his forehelm, just above the spot between his optics with his thumb. Once he realized what he was doing, he snatched it back as if it burned him. He scowled.

++++

     Ratchet was in deep recharge when an internal alarm woke him; he was halfway to the medbay before he was fully awake and could read on his HUD what the alarm was for.

      Drift.

      He had been fine when Ratchet left the medbay for the evening. 

      _:Ratchet! Aid! Get over here:_ Ambulon commed over the shared medical channel; it was his turn for the late shift. 

      _:Status report!:_

      Ambulon sent him a data packet. He scanned through them as he made his way to the medbay and stepped through its doors; First Aid had thankfully made it there before him, and was helping Ambulon cool Drift down. 

      “Get him to surgery. And get him cooled down!”

      Drift’s temperature spiked to the point of overheating. Ambulon removed some of his larger armor plates before rushing into the storeroom. He returned with several bags of coolant that he tucked against Drift and slid a few of the smaller packs under armour that could not be easily removed; the thick vinyl packaging allowed for heat transfer, but was unlikely to tear.

      Ratchet’s scans told him something had gone horribly awry in Drift’s helm. Instead of fixing the micro fractures that Ratchet could not repair by hand, the repair nanites had gone haywire, mistaking part of the damages as unrepairable and surrounding them. They turned it into a corrupted mass that was slowly coroding Drift’s processors.  


      He set First Aid on removing his helm armour. He found the port in the nape of Drift’s neck by touch and jacked in; his conscience was split in two, part directly into Drift’s systems and the other directing the surgery. 

      An emergency conference with Ambulon and First Aid decided that they should remove the section of the processor and replace it with a new part. This was the last thing Ratchet wanted to do, and as a last ditch resort he uploaded a medical virus that would compress the files stored within the part and upload the code to a different part of the processor. He could retrieve them later and install them into the new component. 

      In the aftermath of Drift’s emergency surgery, Ratchet had hidden himself away in his office at the back of the medbay. Dim, blue optics stared at the data pad in front of him after a vicious round of pacing. His helm was held in his servos. Even though the surgery went off without a hitch, Ratchet couldn’t shake feeling defeated. He was out of ideas and out of time. 

      He couldn't just replace the entirety of Drift’s processors. Not anymore. The technology just didn’t exist anymore. And if he did the mech would no longer be Drift and he would have a difficult life at best.

      Most software was so intricately interwoven with Cybertronian systems it would take vorns to regenerate, and even then it would be flawed. He would be at risk for system scan failures and other bugs. It wasn’t like writing code for a non-sentient machine.  
Ratchet could feel the onset of a processor ache.

      He needed to speak with Chromedome.

      It took him the better part of the morning to formulate a plan to get Chromedome to cooperate with him; he knew Chromedome was likely to completely refuse to help him, mostly due to Drift’s hand in his Conjux’s death. Part of him understood this and could even sympathise with it. 

      But he couldn’t give up. He was so tired of the war, even though it was finally over. He was tired of the hatred and how deeply it was still rooted. He wasn’t perfect - he still held onto the bitter threads of anger; sometimes they were the only things that kept him going.

      Sometimes the only solution was forgiveness, for he had long ago learned that justice, while it was a great ideal to aspire to, just didn’t exist. It hurt, more than he thought it would, when he acknowledged that. 

      It took several hours of arguing back and forth and one screaming match to get Chromedome to begrudgingly agree to help him.

      Chromedome gave a heavy ex-vent and glared at the bed where the stripped, white frame lay; he didn’t really feel comfortable helping save Drift. He refused to help directly, but he eventually came to a compromise with Ratchet. He still resented the part he played in Rewind’s demise, but at the same time, Ratchet had never done anything to him. Heck, he had even gone on a hunt for a spark that was compatible with Rewind’s when his failed, granted it was part of his duty as a medic, but still... Chromedome felt obligated to help him.

      By this time Ambulon and First Aid had reported for duty and were avidly watching the events between their superior officer and Chomedome.

      “Tell me, Ratchet, how far are you willing to go to save him?” Chromedome asked quietly, fingers steepled under his chin and giving Ratchet a considering look.

      Ratchet glanced over to Drift, as if contemplating the question.

      ‘Whatever is necessary.”

      “I suppose I know something that may help, then,” he said as he withdrew a small box from his subspace. 

      He worked the lid off of the box- it had been in his subspace for a long time, before he got his needles and was still studying to be a mnemosurgen- and the metal wanted to stick. It was something he had always meant to get rid of, but never had. He withdrew a long, braided, polymer-covered wire cord. One end ended in what looked like a pair of mnemosurgen needles and the other ended in a jack that looked like it could be plugged into a medical port of some kind.

     “This,” Chromedome said as he wiggled it between his fingers, “is a training cord for mechs who want to be mnemosurgen. It allows students to hook up to a mech and be able to see memories, but be unable to edit them. Mostly just to see if they can find the right memories to edit, should they have the ability. Dunno how well this one will work; it’s an old one and both mnemotechnology and our own systems have improved since it was last used, but maybe it can be modified so you can help him.”  


     Ratchet quirked an optical ridge and held out his hand for the cord. After Chromedome placed it in his hands, he gave it a thorough look over to make sure it was in working condition. To make sure the polymer had not cracked, the wires had not frayed, and the needles had not been bent.

      “So how do you plan on making this work?” Ratchet groused.

      Chromedome briefly outlined his plan. That… That could actually work. It was definitely unorthodox, but he was willing to try.

      “You sure you want to do this, Ratchet? It could be dangerous.” First Aid asked, his visor glowing with his usual concern as he listened in. 

      They decided Ratchet was the best candidate; he knew Drift best between the four of them. Chromedome flat out refused to take part other than what was necessary and Ambulon briefly flared his armour before politely declining. 

      Ratchet merely quirked his brow-ridges at First Aid’s question.

      “Aid, if I were scared of a little danger I wouldn’t be a medic.”

      And it was true, the title of medic wasn’t as cushy as the public optic generally considered it. Medics were often first on the scene of disasters and outbreaks. And in war, scared and injured patients could be as dangerous as an enemy soldier. And that didn’t even begin to cover the life and death decisions they had to make. If you couldn't take the pressure and the weight of your actions, it would eat you alive, it would. Several of his classmates had self terminated because of it.

      The plan was to link Ratchet to Drift’s processors and from there, manually find the appropriate data and memories. Ratchet was basically using himself as a hub and individually put Drift’s scrambled data back together piece by piece. He ran the risk of getting lost and stuck in Drift’s mind, or worse; he could be in there when Drift ran a file dump. 

      “I’ll do it,” Ratchet said, optics unseeing at first before he looked each of them in the optics, “ Now let’s get started.”

++++ 

      When Ratchet awoke, his helm felt like it was going to split open; it was worse than some of the hangovers he had gotten after the parties in med school. There were few parties like the Iacon Academy of Science and Technology’s. Particularly when the engineering and med students got together for a joint brouhaha. He looked back on his academy days with a mixture of fondness and ‘Frag-That-Was-Dumb.’ Considering the knowledge the students knew about Cybertronian physiology, they often got up to some… ah… interesting antics. Proving that some things were indeed physically possible as long as you knew what you were doing and wanted the results badly enough. Mostly things he would yell at people for attempting, and refuse to fix them, unless it was serious. Let them suffer and learn a lesson or two.

      Fun times.

      Anyway, he still felt like he had been hit in the helm with a truck. He wished he could have a drink of coolant. He sat up with a groan and barely unshuttered his optics, letting small amounts of light filter through. He assumed there was nothing he could do for his processor ache, and sat like that for a few moments while he got his bearings, then he snapped his optics open. 

      He had never been misfortunate enough to live there, but he had spent enough time in his drop-by clinic that he knew the area well. It had been vorns, but he knew where he was. 

      _Rodion._

      It was… but it wasn’t. He could tell he was close to the Dead End. Same cracked sidewalks. Same old buildings falling into decay, windows boarded up and doors broken in. Same crude graffiti brightening the dull neutral greys and browns of the place. Even the smells were the same - musty decay- and the light was still dim, filtered through the upper levels of the city. Trash littered the ground, collecting in little drifts against fences and walls. It was dirty and shabby, but alive with the poor of the city- the empties. He could see some of them milling about outside the alleyway he was apparently in. Something was still off...

      Ratchet tried to place it. He decided it would be best to move while he thought. He wouldn’t find whatever part of Drift called him here by standing in a cluttered alley way.  


      The grit from the street caused his pedes to make rasping sounds like steel wool over metal as he wandered aimlessly down the streets. The starved, hollow optics of a group of younglings followed him, their heads turning like security cameras and their faces too old for their frames. One of the youngest offered him a tight smile, hands reaching out, hoping for a shainx or energon… something. Anything. 

      It twisted something in Ratchet’s spark, even though he knew they weren’t real. It reminded him why he opened a free clinic in the real Rodion, despite being busy with his Senate work.

      He allowed his mind to wander, trying to feel out the fragment, like Chromedome said he should. It was difficult, felt a little too much like the nonsense voodoo Drift was always spouting off, but he would try. For Drift’s sake. His gait slowed as he instinctively concentrated less on his visible surroundings. 

      He felt the briefest of nudgings - wasn’t even sure if what he felt was something real- but he followed the general direction he thought it was in. Thankfully his helmache dissipated as he moved. 

      Deeper and deeper he walked into the Dead End. It became maze-like; dark buildings loomed oppressively above him, and the streets and alleys merged into a tangled web of footpaths and roads, some so narrow, Ratchet knew he could not fit down them in his alt mode and a few so wide mechs could walk four or five abreast. When he turned the corner, he knew he is in what is the red light district. 

      Neon, xenon, and argon lights glowed in a riot of garish colours; it was dark despite it being daytime, for the street was hidden under the underpasses of the upper levels. Bar fronts proudly flashed their homebrews and engex concoctions to the general public, and the buildings were a little nicer. 

      Mechs in the cheap, flashy paint jobs of pleasure bots mingled freely with mechs from the upper sectors, chatting with them and offering their services. It was noisy, and surprisingly busy for the time of day. 

      Ratchet scrutinized the crowed for a little while, before moving on. He frowned, his face pulling into a look of concentration, he couldn't feel the little whisper in his head anymore. Whatever he was looking for was not here.

      He moved through the crowed and was jostled between mechs. A thin, pretty mech with dark blue paint and yellow highlights smiled at him and gave him a “come-hither” gesture. 

      Ratchet gave a shake of his head and pushed forward, weaving his way out of the street and back into the poorer part of town. He walked past shabby dwellings with equally shabby mechs living in them and little stalls where street vendors hawked their meager wares. The streets dwindled into narrow passages, and he sensed he is going in the right direction. 

      He forced himself through a narrow alleyway, the glass windshield on his front scraping uncomfortably against the side of a building as it made an annoyingly high pitched squeal; he can feel the paint being scratched on his back. 

      It was not pleasant, and it made his plating crawl just thinking about what was getting ground into his plating. He knew it wasn’t real, but it felt and smelled real enough to make him forget if he didn’t constantly remind himself of that fact.

      The alley led to a slightly larger street with a canal running down the middle. It was filled with sludgy looking waste water that glowed dimly in the low light, and rushed downhill with surprising speed. 

      Ratchet heard the thud of footsteps behind him; before he could turn, he was shoved out of the way and into a wall.

      “Need to watch where yer going, old mech!” the black and white mech called irately over his shoulder as he ran past Ratchet and disappeared around the corner with the canal. 

      Drift? The mech had to have been Drift. Ratchet had not seen him in that plating since before the war, but that had to have been him. 

      There were more footsteps as several other mechs forced their way around Ratchet as well and chased Drift around the corner. One of them started to blare his sirens as he skidded around the corner and almost fell into the canal.

      Enforcers!

     Ratchet followed after them, taking the corner more cautiously. Drift and the enforcers were ahead of him. One of the enforcers yelled at Drift to halt.  


      He ignored them.

      Ratchet watched as Drift raced towards a footbridge with low hanging rails. He saw the pack of enforcers catch up to him as he slowed down to take the turn onto the bridge. One of the smaller ones shot past Drift and blocked the other end of the bridge. They herded him towards the railing, confident that getting caught was a better fate than jumping over the bridge into whatever the Pit was below. 

      Ratchet heard Drift give a brief cry as sharp claws slashed open the thin armour on his belly when the enforcers tried to grab him. He wrenched himself away and fell into the water with a surprisingly quiet splash.

      Ratchet roared. Not again.

      He raced along the edge of the canal, tracking the dark shape of Drift’s form as he was drug along by the current. He ran a few steps before leaping in the air and initiated his transformation sequence. He felt his body rearrange itself in mid air before smacking the ground. He gave a pained grut as his axles scraped the pavement. He was getting too old for this.

      Cybertronians were good at one thing in water. Sinking. Drift couldn’t swim. Few of their race could, unless they had an aquatic alt mode, and even they usually only swam in their alt mode. Most liquids just didn’t play nicely with delicate circuitry and engines.

      Ratchet followed close to the edge of the canal, trying to see where he could get Drift out. The water was a lot deeper than he first thought. The magnets he use to load and secure patients inside himself weren’t strong enough to pull Drift to the edge.

      _Frag it._

     He transformed back into his root mode and jumped into the canal. The combat locks in his armour engaged, keeping vital components dry. He locked down his vents too. He still shuddered as he felt liquid ooze into his joints and underneath his armour. It was like being in a cryo-chamber, only without the benefit of being in stasis. And the thick nanite-rich broth literally getting into everything - intakes, fuel tank, interface components, - everything. It was unpleasant at best. At least his intakes and vents were free of the disgusting water.

     Ratchet floundered. He was not meant for swimming and the current didn’t let him find traction on the bottom. He felt his head go under. Instinctual fear flared, but he tried to stamp it down. That wouldn’t help him here. 

      At first he struggled against the current, before using it to propel himself towards Drift. It was too murky to see, but his scanners could faintly detect a faint spark signature, despite the detritus interference.

      He felt something bump against his outstretched fingers and he snatched at the space in front of him. He latched onto plating and pulled. Ratchet twisted himself around in the waste water so his feet briefly touched the bottom of the canal and jumped upwards. His head burst through the surface and he grappled with Drift, trying to get him above water so he could breathe. 

      He continued the awkward hopping pace. Jump, try to get his patient above water for a few moments before submerging, repeat. By the time he made it to the side they had been propelled quite a ways down stream. 

      He gripped the edge, gracelessly heaving Drift out of the water before hauling himself out. Fetid water streamed from the gaps in his armour. He shook himself and felt his combat locks disengage. He opened his vents and took a grateful breath of fresh air as he knelt beside Drift. He scooped him up, cradling him in his arms, and looked for a safer place to try and repair him. 

      They should be far enough from where Drift fell in to not be bothered by the enforcers, but Ratchet did not want to take any chances. He carried him to an alley that was hidden for the most part by the buildings around it.

      Carefully, he laid Drift down and surveyed the damage. The plating on his belly had been shredded, which would have been relatively easy to fix, except water damage. The water wreaked havoc on the delicate hair thin wires and unprotected circuits in his abdominal cavity. Electrical shorts fritzed angrily and snapped at his fingers when he gave the wound an evaluating prod. 

      Once again he needed his medbay. He could stabilize Drift, but he didn’t have nearly enough parts to repair him stored in his subspace. 

      He worked in silence until he heard Drift groan and felt the cables in his abdomen flex around his hands. He quickened his pace and patched the hole in Drift’s belly before he fully awoke.

      “Who ’r you?” Drift asked, dazed. 

      He blinked, peering over his chest to look at Ratchet.

      “Yer that doctor from the Dead End. Aren’t you?”

     “You guessed it, kid.”

      Drift frowned and moved like he was going to get up until he was pushed back down.

      “Stay down. You’re lucky I was able to get you out of that blasted canal, so don’t push it,” Ratchet groused as he glared at his current patient.

      Drift licked dry lips and barked a laugh. It was harsh, sick thing that was not born of amusement.

      “Don’t have much luck to push, Docbot. Never did.”

      When he smiled at Ratchet it was a feral baring of teeth and his eyes glinted with dark humour, despite the pain he had to be in. But pain was good. Pain meant you weren’t dead and could still be fixed. There was a reason the only ones who could disable pain sensors were medics… and those dumb enough to figure out the code and turn theirs off, which was generally a bad idea and pretty high on the list of don’t-do-it-stupid.

      The smile, if it could be called that, dropped from his face and he looked away. He coughed wetly, perhaps embarrassed. 

     This mech wasn’t the Drift he knew, but he wasn’t quite the monster he had become under the Decepticons either.

      As much as it chagrined him, Ratchet knew Deadlock. Knew him both by reputation, stories, and the rumors he made for himself with his handiwork. Many mechs had ended up on Ratchet’s slab because of this mech; mechs he patched up just to be shot again. Others had never made it to a medic because of Deadlock’s prowess with a blaster.

      Deadlock was a elete Decepticon. Megatron’s mad dog, Turmoil’s second. He killed for fun and probably tortured for kicks. He had been a loose cannon at best, something pointed at the enemy and unleashed. He was vicious and cruel and knew no mercy.

      This wasn’t Deadlock. But he wasn’t Drift either; instead somewhere between the two. A tame Deadlock; a darker, more cynical version of Drift. He was bitter, but not cruel.

      Maybe this is what he was like before the Decepticons got ahold of him or if they never had.

      Ratchet gave his shoulder a squeeze, trying to offer some comfort - there isn’t much more he can do, not without proper medical tools, beyond the scope of what his hands can turn into. Drift’s low light optics dimmed.

      “You ain’t gonna lie to me now, Doc? I know this isn’t something you can fix or you’d be yelling at me by now,” he says, his accent got thicker, slurring his words nearly into Gutter-speech.

      They are quiet for a long while, the silence only interrupted by an occasional cough from Drift. Ratchet wanted to yell, wanted to berate Drift for his foolishness, but he can’t. The anger wasn’t there. He couldn’t dredge it up, no matter how much he wanted to, because this was too close to reality and all Ratchet could see was the real Drift slowly dying back in his medbay. 

      Ratchet startled when Drift cleared his intake to get his attention.

      “I have something I need to give you."

      His voice was urgent, hands grasping at Ratchet’s arm. Ratchet started to ask what, but his words died in his throat as he watched Drift raise a shaky hand to his chest, right over where his spark should lie and _push downwards_. The armour protecting his chest crumbled inwards, disintegrating into rust like a crushed dirt clod under his fingers.

      Drift reached inwards, and jerked something free. When he pulled it out it was hidden in his fist. 

      He pressed it into Ratchet’s palm and Ratchet stared at the dark gaping hole in his ruin of a chest before blinking down at the object in his hand. It’s a thick circular disk, just a little bigger than his palm, and soft, pearlescent yellow. The face was smooth and unfaceted and it was surprisingly heavy for its size. 

      It’s the gem from Drift’s Great Sword. It’s the only thing it could be. It was odd to see it separate from its home in the hilt of the blade. Suddenly, he knows this was what he came for.

      For lack of a better way to describe it, Ratchet felt the life buzzing inside the gem, beating like a spark; a powerful mix of energy and living memory. It felt like Drift in a way this hodgepodge mix of memory and unreality didn’t.

     It prodded at him like a living thing, and after an automatic scan against viral data, he opened himself up to the download. 

      There was no way he could have prepared himself for what came next. Time seemed to slow for a moment, before all of his senses were absolutely flooded with data. He felt his legs give and vaguely heard Drift give a startled yelp. It surged through him, a vicious violent flood that made him howl in pain. Memories flashed in his mind’s eye so quickly he could not even begin to keep track of them. A face of a mech he never met. A shining city. A battle. His joints seized and his optics flared brightly.

     Too much. It was too much. 

     Ratchet’s world faded into blackness for the second time that day.

     When he awoke in the medbay, his head was still spinning from the massive influx of data. He couldn’t hear beyond the rushing of his own energon and the colours were too bright - oversaturated to the most basic of colours, a tilting, nauseating kaleidoscope. He felt too hot. He snatched the pin out from the back of his neck and lurched off the berth he was laying on to the nearest waste receptacle and promptly purged the contents of his tanks.

     He could physically feel it; the fragment a niggling weight in his mind, like a hot pebble.

      He jumped he felt a touch to his shoulder and he looked up to see First Aid watching him, concerned. He was aware First Aid was asking him something, but couldn't hear over the pounding in his head.

      He guessed at the question.

      “Got it,” he rasped, “Got the first fragging piece.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me so much trouble. I rewrote it several times and it is very very different from how I originally planned it. And life got in the way. Had to pull some extra shifts at work. Sorry this is so late.  
> Hope the near fainting bit at the end is accurate; I've only almost fainted once (thank God I didn't cause my coworkers would never let me live it down) and used that as reference. =/  
> Anyway, enjoy everyone!


	4. Chapter 3

_And God damn the wounds that show how deep a word can cut_  
 _Before you were born someone kicked in the door_  
 _There's no place for you here, stay back where you belong_  
 _Before you were born someone kicked in the door_  
 _You are not wanted here, stay back where you belong._  
\- “Before You Were Born” Toad the Wet Sprocket 

      Ratchet paced his office like a caged beast, waiting for First Aid’s shift to start so he and Ambulon could start the next procedure with Drift. If he had it his way he would already be mucking through Drift’s head. Ambulon and Rung were both concerned on the toll it would take on Ratchet and wanted someone to be there whenever he was hooked up with Drift. Ratchet had reluctantly agreed. Not because he thought it was a bad idea (in fact, if it had been any of the others linking processors, he would have demanded they be constantly monitored), but because he could sense how little time they had. Waiting for chaperones to show up only made the time constraint press on him more. His engine had an angry rumble. They were wasting precious time. Ambulon would say he was being reckless again.

      After the retrieval of first fragment, he shambled back to his quarters and defragged the files before falling into recharge. Most were in fairly good shape, but he placed a marker tag on a few particularly corrupted ones for Drift to look at when he woke up. Then he boxed them away and slapped grade-A mental packing tape on them, until he could upload them to the new part for Drift’s processor. 

      Thankfully, he didn’t have to analyze most of the memories directly to defrag them. It was more like dusting them off, rather than rebuilding them. 

      He peeped out into the medbay and grumbled when he didn’t see First Aid or Ambulon. He knew they weren’t there before he looked, but he did anyway. It took a lot of willpower to keep from comming his apprentices. He knew they were probably getting their rations and it was technically still Ambulon’s off shift. He would probably catch up on his reading while he waited on Ratchet. Wasn’t like there was much he could do unless something went wrong.  
Ratchet checked Drift’s stats. Still stable. 

      Earlier that orn he had covered Drift with thermal blankets; he got cold easy, like most racing frames, especially when he had to sit still for long amounts of time. His frame was made to efficiently expel heat, whether he be fighting or racing, not collect it.

      He remembered the times he had stopped by Drift’s suite to drop off paperwork. Sometimes the mech would be sitting hunched at his desk in a nest of blankets, usually doing research, with piles of data pads stacked around him and another at his side, where he scribbled notes in his scrawling handwriting. Once, Ratchet had walked in and Drift even had the blankets pulled up over his head so only his face could be seen from the folds. Ratchet teased him about being a fluffy mound of flakey spiritualist. Drift told him with a completely serious expression at least he was a toasty mound of flakey spiritualist and they had laughed. 

      He wouldn’t admit it, but he found it endearing, seeing the tough warrior swaddled in blankets like a youngling. It was one more thing that made Drift more of a mech than a mistake Ratchet unleashed in the past. 

      He tucked the thermal blankets around Drifts shoulders, untucked them, then tucked them in again. He stalked back to his office and fiddled with some spare parts until First Aid and Ambulon finally arrived. He was correct about his prediction that Ambulon would bring reading material. He had a data pad tucked under one arm. 

      Ambulon advised him to be cautious. First Aid seemed to be almost over eager to see what would happen, what they could learn from Drift’s case and how it could help them in the future. Ratchet almost smiled. Sometimes Aid reminded him of his earlier years when he still thought he could save everyone through skill and good will alone.

      He hoped he never changed.

      He gave First Aid his shift’s patient schedule. He hoped they all checked in. He really hated having to track mechs down. Or sending others to do it. 

      He sat in the chair by Drift’s bedside and pulled the connector wire out of his subspace. He ran his thumb over one pin, felt for the medical port at the nape of Drift’s neck without looking, and jacked in. He traced the curve of his own neck before clicking his end of the connector home and felt his consciousness get tunneled way.

++++

      This time Ratchet awoke to darkness. Black stretched in every direction. It even seemed to descend into a fathomless abyss beneath his feet, despite seemingly standing on something solid. There didn’t seem to be any light, beyond the dull glow his own optics and biolights gave off. 

      His helm throbbed, although not as badly as last time.

      It was far too quiet and eerily still; even his own systems seemed to be muted. When he walked forward, his foot steps didn’t make any noise. He was completely alone in the darkness.

      ‘Well, this is odd’ he thought to himself. 

      He expected to be transported into another memory- dream- whatever he had been in last time. The Dead End was as it had been in reality, but he was certain Drift had never received that wound, or at least the water damage from it. The repairs would have left marks, even with his near total reformat.

      Something moved in the darkness. The shadows to his left twisted and formed into a white mech with red highlights. He was a little shorter than Ratchet and a flyer, although he was of a strange design. Prominent nacelles sat on his shoulders and he had expressive flares on his cheeks. His optics were dark.

      When Ratchet sent out an identification ping only garbled static came back; it was as if nothing was there.

      “Hello,” the mech murmured and offered Ratchet what he probably thought was a benign smile.

      The overall effect was actually quite unnerving and creepy.

      “Who the Pit are you?” Ratchet snarled, taking a defensive stance in case he turned out to be a threat. 

      The mech held his hands up in the placating universal gesture of “I mean no harm.”

      “I’m a friend, I suppose,” he chirped brightly, “I must admit though, I did not expect to see you here.”

      The mech cocked his head and Ratchet got the impression he was blinking. He stared back.

      “Aren’t you going to introduce yourself? That would be polite after all; by the way, my name is Wing.”

      He extended his charcoal grey hand toward Ratchet. 

      “Ratchet,” he replied as he took the offered hand in a firm handshake. He nearly twitched when Wing didn’t return his grip; instead letting his hand limply grasp Ratchet’s with barely enough pressure to be felt. 

      The name Wing sounded familiar… hadn’t Drift known a Wing at some point?

      “Why are you here? I mean,” Ratchet gestured to the emptiness around them, “No one else besides me should be here, right?”

      “I suppose, but you woke me up last time you were here, and now I can run around Drift’s head as I please. Thank you for that by the way.”

      As Wing spoke he twisted and ducked into Ratchet’s personal space to tap him lightly on the Autobrand etched into the center of his chest. Ratchet took a step back.

      “I what?”

      “You woke me up! You know that pretty soul gem from my, or I should I say, Drift’s sword?”

      Ratchet nodded slowly, like he was agreeing with a very insane person just to keep them happy.

      “Well… That was me! Kind of. I’m not sure there’s a good way to explain it, cause I really don’t understand it myself, but I’ve been here a very long time,” he flicked one of his wings from its tight tuck against his back, “Anyway, follow me. We can talk as we walk.”

      Ratchet decided he may as well; Wing didn’t seem particularly malicious. He let him walk ahead of him a few paces. The red and white mech walked with an easy grace that reminded him of Drift, although Wing seemed to have a bouncier step. He supposed that made sense. Wing did teach Drift most of what he knew about swordplay, if he recalled what Drift had told him correctly. 

      “Wing saved me,” he told Ratchet from his seat on a medberth. It was after-hours, and Drift had brought him a cube. “He taught me how to use this.”

      He lovingly caressed the Great Sword at his side; he had drawn it so he could sit down.

      “He’s the one that changed me. For the better, I guess. If he hadn’t, I’d have never met Percy or Rodimus. Or you. Actually, I guess it would be more accurate if I said met you again.” He had given Ratchet a small smile then changed the subject.

      “Aren’t you coming?” Wing asked as he gestured of Ratchet to catch up.

      Ratchet jogged a few steps so they were mostly side by side. They walked in silence for a few minutes before the strange quiet got to Ratchet. He was about to ask Wing if he was going to tell him when a portal opened up a few feet to the side. Blurred images moved on the other side and a few snippets of sound came through. It sounded a little like gunfire. 

      “What’s that?” Ratchet questioned as they reached it.

      “A memory.”

      Wing grabbed Ratchet’s arm and pulled him back as he stepped towards it. His hands were freezing.

      “Not one you want to go in, at least not now. It doesn’t have what you're looking for.”

      “And you know what I’m looking for?” said Ratchet, letting his irritation bleed into his tone.

      “Actually, I think I do. You’re trying to save Drift. I’m not one hundred percent how, but I know he was grievously injured. Now you’re looking for him. Well… Not him, exactly. You’re in his head. You’re looking for what makes him, him.”

      Wing chattered on for a little while and Ratchet waited with slightly fraying patience for him to finish. He wished he would just make his point. The portal in front of them closed and after a few seconds, two or three more opened up in the distance. Wing suddenly trailed of what he was saying and grabbed Ratchet’s wrist.

      “This way!”

      He pulled Ratchet to a portal that had opened up in the floor and tugged more insistently when Ratchet hesitated. The portal was small enough that Ratchet wasn’t sure he would fit, and he still wasn’t sure how far he could trust Wing. He absently noted the mech still hadn’t really answered his earlier question.

      “You need to go here,” he jabbed his finger at the portal, “What you are looking for is in there. Now, come on before it closes.”

      Wing revved the engines in his nacelles and used them to make the necessary leverage to push Ratchet into the portal. When he stumbled to the other side, the first thing he noticed was that he was on a plateau on some organic world. The colours were muted. The dark grey stone he stood on dropped down into jagged spires of obsidian at the edge. They grew hazy as they spread further out until they disappeared in the mist. The volcanic glass contrast starkly with the washed out sky, and he could see a gigantic tower that reached up through the haze in the distance. Pale birds circled its top.

      He heard the muted roar of waves, and the air smelled salty and mildewy.

      The second thing he noticed was an alteration to his frame. His hand fell to a sword that was a little longer than his leg. He’d never carried a sword, and its weight at his hip made him feel off balance. He could feel where the sheath integrated with his armor. It itched with the faint burn of a new part. When he rested his hand on the pommel, it felt disturbingly natural.

      Wing was nowhere in sight.

      He called for him. The response he got was not what he was expecting; he felt a hum from the vicinity of his hip and the pommel under his hand warmed.

      “I’m here.”

      What?

      “I can’t say this was expected; I’m a sword!”

      The voice sounded oddly delighted and Ratchet doesn’t refrain from rolling his eyes. Yes, thank you commander obvious. He can practically feel the blade at his side vibrate with enthusiasm. 

      “This must be how Drift’s mind interprets this reality. Interesting, don’t you think?”

      Ratchet pinched the space between his optics, before accepting the weirdness as a by-product of wading around in another mech’s head. Prowl would have had an aneurysm. He was pretty sure his own logic circuits would lock up if he thought about it too much. He huffed a sigh. 

      “So, why did you say we needed to come here?”

      “One of the ‘fragments’ of Drift you are looking for is here. There are others of course, but this one was closest. I can sense the big ones, Primus knows I’ve been here long enough to be familiar with him, but there is something important here. You are going to have to find it, though; I can get here, but now I can’t differentiate anything. It’s like I’m too close or something.”

      Ratchet thought about what Wing said as he started to work his way down from the edge of the plateau. His body tensed and he grimaced as slipped down the side. The shale flaked off in fragile shingles that tinkled as they tumbled to the bottom. He gave a yelp as the chunk he had slotted his fingers into fell away. He landed hard on his hip and slid the remaining distance to the bottom, his fingers grasping at the grey fragments that tore from the side of the plateau under his hands and shards scraped paint from his chassis. Even Wing gave a surprised yip as they fell.

      Energon trickled from a few shallow cuts on his arms and legs; he groaned when he stood. He dusted himself off and picked out the larger pieces of gravel he could reach from his transformation seams. He could still feel unpleasant grating in his back and other hard to reach places of his frame.

      “You know, it would be easier if you were a mech,” he complained.

      “You don’t think I’ve tried changing form?” 

      Wing muttered irritably to himself. Ratchet had landed on him when they fell and that hurt, slag it. Fragging medic was heavy! And a bit clumsy, but he would never say that out loud.

      Ratchet set off towards the tower. Logic told him that’s where he should go; it stuck out against the other spires like it had a big “COME HERE” sign attached to it. He also felt a draw towards it. 

      “You never told me how you got in Drift’s head.”

      Wing was silent for several long minutes. Ratchet’s strides caused him to thump against Ratchet’s lower legs every few steps. He sighed and it was weird; swords shouldn’t sigh.

      “I guess I’ll be straight with you. I’m dead. Have been for a long time.”

      “When I died… When I died something stayed. I guess whatever remained of my spark energy was still in my Great Sword when Drift bonded to it. He needed me, so I stayed… I’m different than I was in life though. How Drift perceived me changed me and I don’t remember what’s his memory and what’s actually me anymore.”

      The words came out in a tumble, like they needed to be shared, but Wing had had no one to share them with. He gave a sad sounding sigh.

      “So you’re a ghost?” Ratchet asked sarcastically. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

      “Good, cause I don’t either.”

      There was a beat of silence before they laughed.

      “You know, I think I could like you, kid.”

      It was quiet for a second before Ratchet added, “You do realize that Drift would have a field day if he ever found out that you’ve haunted him all these years. He’d probably try to hold a seance or something.”

      Wing snorted a laugh.

      “Yeah, I bet he would.”

      They walked for a little while, each lost in his own thoughts; the large obsidian tower was growing closer when a shriek from over their heads broke the companionable silence. Something swooped down on them and Ratchet gave a silent howl of pain as claws sliced through his armour like a hot knife and he stumbled to his knees. The wound in his shoulder felt cold, cold like ice, like alcohol being vacuumed from his armor, and it burned. A warning popped up on his HUD: “Actuator damage- crack in casing.” 

      What he thought were birds were not, and a few swarmed to meet him with shrill cries. They were huge; a little bigger than Ratchet himself and obviously organic.  


     Massive bleached out, feathered wings battered him and feet tipped with brutal talons swiped at him. Ratchet snarled as claws clipped his arm. He felt something go cold in his gut, like misstepping on a staircase, when he reached for the blaster he kept in his subspace and his fingers closed on nothing.

      He scrambled backwards and dove behind one of spires. The things - crude effigies of angels, really- overshot and flew past him. 

      He wasn’t sure how much time he had before they circled back on him. He dodged behind another pillar and hissed quietly when his arm spasmed. He clutched it to his side as he peeked over his good shoulder and tried to decide what to do. He didn’t have his blaster, and it had been awhile since he last engaged in hand to hand. He was slightly ashamed to admit he had never gotten around to upgrading Pharma’s hands, which had all the gadgets forged medics were sparked with, to the combat standards his old ones had; they could turn into large laser scalpels he used like daggers. He hadn’t wanted to upgrade them; his hands weren’t supposed to be weapons, but it had been a necessary addition to his frame. And while he could take one or two of the “angels” on his own, he knew he could not take all of them all of them, even with a blaster.

      “Sword!” Wing remind him.

      If not for the fight, he would have been embarrassed with how he struggled to draw the sword, unused to the length. He swung the sword -Wing- in an arc as he stepped from behind his shelter. One of the creatures screamed like a dozen mechs in pain and thick, hot, tar-like blood sprayed through the air.

      “Gross!” Wing yelped.

      Ratchet ran and when another dove toward, talons extended, he caught it with the flat of his blade. It bit deeply into the monster's fingers. His arms trembled and his actuators strained and he braced himself as it tried to force him backwards. It had an uneven, jagged slash for a mouth, and it’s eyes were slitted, sunken yellow pits. It hissed at him through nostrils above its eyes before it screamed, bestial and enraged. Primus, it’s so angry and he can felt it seethe off it in waves. It’s teeth were stained and broken, like shattered glass, and its breath reeked of rot. 

      Ratchet screamed back and twisted to shoved it off. It lost its balance and rolled to the ground, thrashing. Ratchet swiftly kicked it onto its back and impaled it through its gut. He wrenched the sword downwards and ignored the creature’s dying cries as its ropey purple-grey entrails spilled out as he turned towards his next opponent.

      Time blurred to slashing and angry howls and the occasional bright sear of pain as he fought his way fumblingly towards the tower. He took down another one and injured a few more. By the time he finally reached the tower and forced himself through an opening that was almost too small, he was exhausted. His fans laboured, trying to vent over hot air from his internals. He had a vicious grin - the entrance was too small for them to follow; he watched talons swat through the entrance.

      He worked himself further in, shoulders leaving pale streaks of red on the walls, and came to an empty room. His injured shoulder slumped downward, the actuator barely supplying his arm with power. Wing instructed him to clean the blade of the Great Sword on the black sand that covered the floor.

      It was dim, and the walls were made of the same obsidian as the outside of the tower. He could see markings covering one of the walls. He narrowed his optics and brushed his fingers over them to remove the salt that had collected out of the air.

      Words, but time had worn the massive inscription away from the glossy walls to nothing but shallow ineligible indentations. He stared at them, but couldn’t make anything out.

      “It seems so lonely in here.” Wing murmured from Ratchet’s hip.

      It was true- Ratchet couldn’t hear the noise from outside and it was dim and chilly. The walls wept condensation from the humid air.

      He skirted the edges of the room to a doorway on the opposite side. The doorway lead to a staircase with wide shallow steps. He chose to follow them downwards; he would work his way upwards if he needed to. 

      “I wonder what this place was used for… A watchtower maybe?”

      Ratchet snorted at the question and let Wing ramble -so this was where Drift got it from- and descended down the stairs. He let one hand trail against the wall and the other closed around Wing’s grip as he followed the stairs down, down, down. The weight of the earth above him felt suffocating if he thought about it too long.

      “Wing…”

      “Mmm?”

      “I don’t think this is a watchtower.”

      It was a sepulchre. 

      A rectangular block of charcoal grey stone was mounted into the floor. The sides were roughly hewn, but the lid was carved into a smooth featureless mech. His arms were folded to his chest and his hands clasped a sword that was identical to the one at Ratchet’s hip. 

      Thick chains, rusted and heavy, wrapped around the sword and and the figure’s hands and down into the coffin itself. When he stepped forward he knew, just like last time, that this was what pulled them here. 

      The chains strained against the blade. They’re pulled so tightly it seems to bend under their strength, he can almost hear the metal of the sword creaking. Ratchet just stared for a long time, trying to decide what to do and Wing stayed silent at his side, inanimate as the chained sword before him. 

      When he looked closely, he could see minute changes in the layers of rust, just faint shifts in the shadows on them really; they were words too. The few he could make out made his spark feel tight in his chest.

      _Siphonist. Betrayer. Decepticon. Fool._

      He frowned and stepped up against the stone and looked down onto the faceless mech. His fingers tried to dig into the space under the chains searching for a way to loosen them.

      “You know, kid,” and this time he was speaking to a Drift that wasn’t there, “I think somewhere along the way you forgot what forgiveness means. I’m not saying you shouldn't have tried to change, but sometimes you’ve got to let the past go… You know? Dwelling on it changes nothing; it’ll just hurt you more in the end. Trust me on this.”

      “I wish you’d wake up. It’d be nice to see you back home.”

      Ratchet broke off when he felt the statue shutter. The chains parted under his hands and slithered into holes in the sides of the coffin and when he eased the sword out of the statue’s death grip he feels a rush of data. 

      He shuttered his optics in preparation for the onslaught of memories, and it’s just as painful this time. 

      He opened his eyes to darkness and he’s back where he started. He notices white out of his peripheral vision and Wing was standing beside him.

      “What… What was that?” he asked him.

      Wing considered for a moment before smiling secretively.

      “Hope.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... This is inexcusably late... For those who read this, I haven't forgotten and I will finish this (with luck, before Empire of Stone comes out). I kinda lost my steam; a combination of nerves and work was understaffed and my classes started again, so I don't have much free time any more.... On the bright side, I do have part of the next chapter written and the last few chapters outlined. I think this will have about 3-4 more chapters, if all goes well. I also fixed a couple small grammatical errors in the last chapter. If anyone sees anything, feel free to point it out.
> 
> Anyway, I wanted to thank everyone who's kudoed this or left a comment. You guys give me encouragement to finish this.


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Sorry this took so long to get up. Also my beta and I haven't been in contact due to us both being super busy, so it's just me editing now.

_So leave that click in my head  
 _And I will remember the words that you said__  
 _Left a clouded mind and heavy heart_  
 _But I was sure we could see a new start_  
 _…._  
 _But hold me fast, hold me fast_  
 _Cos I’m a hopeless wanderer_  
\- “Hopeless Wanderer” Mumford and Sons

  With Wing’s assistance, Ratchet retrieved more fragments, slowly rebuilding the remains of Drift’s data banks. It seemed like an impossible task most times. Sometimes he collected memories, altered by time and Drift’s perceptions- he had to save Perceptor who gave him a datapad. Wing told him it represented his patience. He guessed it was represented as Perceptor because the mech was the most patient person Drift knew of.  
Sometimes the fragment was just a ream of memories, with no real component of Drift’s personality attached, like the box of incense that represented his memories of Earth.

  Others made no sense until he had time to look back on them. They were usually stories of some kind; some from Earth, others from elsewhere in the galaxy. Some of the ones from Earth he only recognized because Verity told them to him one night.

  Primus, he missed that little human.

  He caught a gigantic golden shark and saved Drift’s honor, and later snatched helm ornamentation from a one eyed techno organic with no skin or plating after burning seaweed and chasing it into the sea; his rage; his pain.

  He asked Wing why they had to save that one. Wing said he can’t pick and choose who Drift is; they need all of him and the memories and associations he made with each part of himself. 

  They visited a white city made of marble and precious stones that stretched to the heavens where Ratchet coerced a tiny, frightened, sparkling Drift out of a culvert. He clung to Ratchet’s neck with little clawed hands and cried. When he asked Wing what that represented he dodged the question and mentioned the city was a warped version of New Crystal City, his home. 

  He looked forlorn when the city evaporated, the piece they needed safely collected.

 Memories and legends and stories culminated to make dozens of worlds and it never seemed to be enough; it was like trying to catch a handful of water and the most crucial part of Drift always slipped through his fingers. And the more time that went on, the more Ratchet worried about actually being able to bring him back or back in any meaningful way.

 This time when he stepped into the Black, Wing wasn’t waiting for him. He was a little worried, Wing always waited for him like some kind of lost cyber-puppy. He waited a little while before he crouched down in the dark, easing himself to the ground with a quiet groan when his knee joints popped. Little memory portals opened up around him, humming quietly like soft little wounds that bled light into the emptiness. 

  He watched them flicker into and out of existence. Sometimes he caught a faint crackle of noise or a puff of cold or fuzz of warmth as they lazily floated around him. They were kind of pretty, he supposed. 

  One no bigger than his fist opened up in front of him and he cupped his hands around it, just to feel its staticky pull. When the edges of his fingers started to blur, he let it go. It buzzed in front of him for a few more moments before popping into a shower of embers that quickly faded away. The others were shuddering out around him in a wave, and he realized he was no longer alone in the darkness. Something was out there, but it wasn’t Wing. 

  He could feel its power - it was insane with rage, and underlying that rage was sick, tank churning desperation and… He stopped trying to analyze it, thought process aborted as he shuddered under its suffocating weight. It rushed towards Ratchet, formless and savage.

  He ran. Terror that belonged to prey flashed through him and he was reminded what it was like to be hunted. He turned, nearly falling over from his momentum; he faltered briefly and his fingers briefly scraped across the ground. 

  Whatever it was, it seemed to be intelligent as it herded, blocking him from of the portals and forcing him towards one that glowed red. Ratchet thought he heard screaming. 

  When a portal opened up beside him, he bolted into it without a second thought, only caring to get away from the thing that was chasing him. He felt himself drop, spark fluttering in his chest. Expecting there to be ground when there was none.

  And he found himself in a field.

  Honestly, it looked a lot like Earth, but it was too quiet for an organic place. The wind rustled the grass, but that was the only sound beyond the whirring of his own vents. It was tranquil enough Ratchet almost didn’t want to move for fear of breaking it. He waited for a few moments, frozen in place as he tried to sense if he had been followed.

  It seemed he hadn’t. 

  His plating gave a shudder as it unclamped and resettled as the fear wore off and he had a chance to look around.

  Cool, green grass cushioned his feet and the air smelt like rain. Earth rain that was. It was dark and only the stars lit up the inky heavens in twinkling pinpricks of light. The sky was so clear he could see nebulous clouds outside the atmosphere that stretched for miles and disappeared over the horizon. It was the breathtaking sight of a world untouched.

  He had the childish impulse to transform and race along the seemingly untarnished ground.

  When he folded down into his altmod, he set off at a much more sedate pace than his instinct wanted him to. Little rocks stuck in his treads as he followed a dirt path that opened up for him. The rocks didn’t bother him that much, they slipped out almost as soon as he noticed them in his tires.

  He followed the road as far as it would take him. He wasn’t sure how far; his odometer seemed to be offline. Then again, he noticed his internal chronometer wasn’t working either, but that was something that seemed common to his little trips to dreamland. Time didn’t have meaning here like it did in the real world. 

  He rolled to a stop in front of a cave whose mouth was almost completely covered by stones. There was a small female human holding a lantern and standing in front of it. 

  She was humming rhythmic, nasal tune and she bobbed slowly to its beat. 

  “Miss?” he called lowly in English, guessing at which human language and choosing the one he had used most often; he didn’t want to frighten her - she was the only living organism he had seen besides the plants. 

  She turned and said something to him.

  “I didn’t catch what you said. Can you repeat that?”

  She wasn’t speaking in English. His optics dimmed as he went digging through old archives and unzipped his old language files.

  “Can you make him laugh?” she asked as she pointed at the cave and looked Ratchet in the optic before disappearing as if she had never been there. 

  He took a step towards where the woman stood and muttered to himself about the cryptic mumbo jumbo he had to deal with, his previous jovial mood long forgotten.  
  A rasping like dry leaves over tin roofing came from inside the cave. He glared at it for a moment, his lips turning down into the scowl he usually reserved for patients with particularly stupid injuries. He crept towards the opening, careful not to dislodge the boulders. He didn’t want to have to deal with a rock-slide too. 

  Ratchet wobbled briefly as he balanced on some of the stones, shoving his feet into crevices so he would not fall. He still had to crane his neck to see into the gap at the top. He squinted into the shadows and could barely make out the form of familiar finials. 

  “Drift? Hang on kid, I’ll get you out of there.”

  Drift didn’t respond. 

  Ratchet pulled at the heavy stones and lifted them away, either letting them roll down the mound or tossing them to the bottom. By the time he finished the joints in his wrists and elbows creaked in protest and his knuckles and fingertips were scuffed silver. 

  Drift was huddled in the back of the cave with his knees pulled to his chest, facing one of the walls and staring ahead. He didn’t respond to his name being called. Ratchet grew increasingly worried; he couldn’t enter the cave, despite removing the worst of the rocks. When he tried to step into the cave he was repelled. It made his plating crawl uncomfortably. It felt like some kind of magnetism.

  He took to pacing outside the cave. He paused long enough to scrub his hand over his face when he realized the sun was rising.

  _“Can you make him laugh?”_

  What the pit was that suppose to mean? Well, it was obvious what the words meant, but why? Why would making Drift laugh make a hill of bolts difference?

  Ratchet scowled, brow furrowing, before making himself play this game with nonsense rules, despite his instincts telling him that this was absolutely ridiculous. He shoved that fact that he wasn’t a very funny person to the back of his mind. He had a fairly good sense of humour mind, had to to be a medic, but what he found funny wasn’t “haha funny” or intentionally comedic. His sense of humour was very dark and often dry. 

  He tried the jokes. He couldn’t actually remember the punch lines of most of them, so he only came up with a few especially lame puns.

  As he expected, he got no reaction out of Drift, who stayed curled facing away from him. 

  Several days passed in this matter. Ratchet coming up with increasingly painful attempts to be funny, whether it be jokes or funny, sometimes embarrassing, stories from his younger days, and Drift ignoring him. He sat slouched against the side of the cave; he was exasperated and tired.

  Eventually, he just started talking. It’s hard at first and he grasps for anything to talk about - Sweve’s, recent patients, how he met Orion, whatever came to mind. He rambled and while he’s not as succinct as bots like Soundwave, it’s still the longest he’s spoken in a long time. He talks until vocalizer is hoarse with static and his voice fritzes every few words and his eyes are dim as he leans against the wall for support.

  He wasn’t sure what prompted the change, but he heard pedes scrape against the ground behind him. He tried not to turn around, afraid that his attention will spook Drift back to his previous state. He has to force himself not to reach out and touch Drift’’s shoulder when he sits down beside him.

  The white mech eyed Ratchet for a long time, before he vented an exhausted sigh. 

  “I had a friend once; his name was Gasket. He took care of us. On the streets. Gathered us together, made sure we had something to keep us together, something to live for. He was good at that; always knew what to say or what to do. Even when things were really bad and we were all starving and practically ready to claw our way out of our plating, he would have something to say to make it tolerable, or he would find Energon. Never much, but Primus knows how he found enough.” 

  He stops and takes a shaky breath; he flexes his hands, clenching his fists until the plating on his forearms trembles.

  “Things got bad. The enforcers started doing more raids and cracking down on us more. I remember he and I were out, looking for something to eat probably. I was in bad mood and he was trying to cheer me up. He tried to juggle; he was terrible at it and he knew it, but I think that’s why he tried to show off. It was something to make us laugh. He turned to me and they shot him. And we weren’t even doing anything and we didn’t even notice them, but the enforcers shot him anyway. I guess we looked suspicious.”

  He breaks off into laughter that turns into a sob.

  “ He died with this big stupid grin on his face cause he made me laugh and he didn’t even know what got him.”

  Drift covered his face with his hands. When Ratchet cautiously put his arm around his shoulder, he buried his face in Ratchet’s shoulder and cried horrible, laughing, wracking sobs.

  “I’m sorry, kid.”

  When Ratchet left his spark was heavy with the piece he had to return.

++++

  When you’re a medic you need to be jaded, at least a little. If you cared too much the job ate you alive. You learned to try not get too attached. Learn to laugh at things that aren’t really funny, cause it was the only way to cope. Because at the end of the day, even if your patient died, you still had to go back to work. Their loved ones may be able to take time to mourn, but it was just another day for you and there were always those who need your help.

  And part of you would always try to save every single patient, even if it was an impossibility, because medicine isn’t magic. It’s not a miracle. And that still stings no matter how many years pass. 

  Death may have been the tool of soldiers and warriors, but it was the medic’s constant companion.

  And this cut him clean in ways he hadn’t experienced in a long time and it hurt. It was like being a new medic again and pleading with the patient not to die while he scrambled to cap off fuel lines before they bled out. He tried not to get too attached, tried to distance himself and think professionally, but Drift was one of those special few patients that captivated him. Sure, there were some patients he liked dealing with more than others; and he would quietly mourn each and everyone of his patients, should something happen to them. But to loose Drift… That would be devastating. He was one of those that made him want to go above and beyond his duty. To protect. To heal. He was special and Ratchet couldn’t explain why. 

  He was startled from his thoughts by the sound of First Aid berating Whirl and Brainstorm about safety. Again.

  His staff was starting to dub them the troublesome duo. They usually ended up in the medbay for reasons similar to this: Brainstorm had what he considered a brilliant idea; Whirl went along with the idea because he thought it was amusing, and bodily harm happened to at least one crew mate. Thankfully, this time it was just them. Whirl had acid burns across one side and Brainstorm was missing a hand. Ratchet, quite frankly, really didn’t want to know what they had gotten up to this time.  
  It was probably something to do with an experimental gun.

  Ratchet hung back as his apprentice worked on the two mechs, watching in interest more than trying to actively guide him, before turning back to the storeroom. He had given First Aid command of the med bay for the week to evaluate how he would perform when he finally took over for Ratchet. 

  Thus far he had done well; he was confident in his diagnoses and gave Ratchet the much needed respite from the usual strain of keeping the med bay ship shape and running smoothly.

  He found himself more easily distracted. After returning to his current chore, he stopped half-way through taking inventory after recounting the same row of vials over for the sixth time. He felt a faint throb behind his optics and shuttered them hard a few times before cupping his hands and pressing over his optical sockets when that didn’t relieve the pressure. He frowned, but decided to call it a day. He noted on his datapad where he needed to begin in the morning and subspaced it away. He bid Ambulon good evening and pretended not to notice the odd look he got. So what if it was a little unusual for him to leave right at the end of his shift, especially when he was in the middle of a task?

  Ambulon wisely said nothing, but his look of concern spoke for him.

  Ratchet tried to shrug it off. He was fine. 

  He stopped by Swerve’s to get a cube before heading back to his habsuite where he sat at his desk and stared listlessly out the window. Stars floated lazily past his window in constellations that would never have names.

  He turned his gaze to the three little potted crystals he kept on a shelf near his desk. Well… one of them was his, the other two were technically Drift’s. His was the oldest, a miniature of one of his favourite crystals from the Crystal Gardens of Praxus. It had been given to him as a present in the early years of the war before Cybertron went to the Pit in a handbasket. They glowed an inviting deep pink and were actually quite dear to him. A red fingertip gently traced one of the crystals and he tried to convince himself he wasn’t a sentimental old fool.

  Both of Drift’s were blue. He had swiped them when Drift’s quarters were cleaned out. The living crystals would die and turn brittle without a steady supply of energon and he hated to see them die; partially because he knew how much Drift loved them - how much effort he put into their care and maybe he would want them back if he ever saw him again. And partially because some overly soft part of him he usually tried to ignore wouldn’t let something innocent die. Even if it was as insignificant as a crystal.  
  

One was elegantly crafted to grow like one of Japan’s bonsais. Fragile, spindly growths mimicked miniscule branches and leaves. The other was feathered with pale yellow veins. The original was in a pot too large to take without being noticed; he had snapped off a fragment and coaxed it into growing with some gentle care and a lot of swearing. It grew naturally, without a constructed form, and honestly didn’t look much like its progenitor, other than its colours. 

  He took one last swig from his cube and divided the remainder among the crystals. He repaired a few of the extra optical arrays he had taken from the medbay a few weeks ago and turned in early. 

  Ratchet stared at the dark ceiling before counting all the rivets. He got to three hundred seventy-four before abruptly shifting to his side. This was stupid. His optics felt too hot and he offlined them irritably.

  He rolled and flopped and tried to scrunch into a comfortable position, but sleep wouldn’t come. The insomnia had returned with the end of the war. Or perhaps it had never gone away and he was coming off his several million year combat high of having to be ready to go at a moment’s notice and only sleeping when his body was exhausted enough it forced him to recharge. 

  When he finally was able to wind down enough to recharge for a few hours he dreamt of an old argument with Drift.

  He didn’t remember exactly what it was about, the argument that was; but it seemed dumb in retrospect. It started at Swerve’s -probably Drift said something flaky and he snapped something sarcastic in response and it devolved from there, like so many of their arguments- and continued as they left to return to their habsuites. They stood outside Drift’s, nearly yelling at each other. 

  Drift’s shiny white plating glinted platinum in the sterile corridor lights and when his lips snarled up to reveal teeth, Ratchet had momentarily seen a ghost from his past.

  “Ratch, no offense, but you ain’t ever been small a day in your life. You were forged a fraggin’ medic, you always knew you had a place. You’re one of my best friends, but you have slagging no idea what you’re talkin’ about.”

  Drift’s words stopped him short, taking the angry retort from his mouth and causing him to focusing on what had just been said.

  “I’m one of your best friends?” he asked incredulously. He could see younger bots; Rodimus obviously, but maybe Pipes and some of the younger crew. Not cranky, mean, old bots like him. 

  “...Yeah…” Drift replied.

  He looked so unsure, with the sudden defusement of their argument, the anger gone as suddenly as it had come. His shoulders were hunched up defensively and a look of something between fear and possibly hurt on his face. He looked away before giving Ratchet a small sad smile that showed his age. By the way Drift acted, most forgot he was created before the war. Ratchet knew he did sometimes.

  “I mean… you believed in me when no one else did. I was a tweaked out gutter punk, but you still saw someone worth saving. Even now, you gave me a second chance to prove myself and you put up with me hanging around… So... Yeah…”

  He gave Ratchet a soft pat on the shoulder and disappeared into his room before Ratchet could formulate a response. He stared at the cold grey door that lead to Drift’s quarters before leaving to return to his own. He was touched. He knew he and Drift were friends, the kind of friendly camaraderie that came from working together and being on the same side, but he didn’t know the other mech valued him so much. It warmed something he didn’t know was cold in his spark.

  He woke briefly and stared at the muted glow of his crystals through groggy, squinted eyes before falling back asleep. He didn’t dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Putting this here so it's easy to skip, but author rant ahead.
> 
> It's been a trying two months since I last updated (has it really been that long?!). Had the usual turmoil within the family. Also had to fight with management for over a week; I live in a communal dorm (Uni student ftw!). We somehow got bedbugs and they didn't believe me until I caught one of the little suckers and boxed it up in tupperware as proof. Then getting the situation fixed was a lesson in Murphy's Law. I was ready to pick a fight by the end of it. And I kinda picked up a stalker; I thought he was a friend, but he's not. I could go on, but quite frankly I just want to forget October ever happened. 
> 
> Anyway, I'm way behind on my writing. I know I said I was going to try to finish by the time EoS came out, but that's not going to happen. Screw the schedule, cause I don't think I've ever kept it anyway. I'll up date it when I can, but it may be a little while.
> 
> Here's to a better month.  
> For anyone who is still reading this fic, you're awesome. Thank you.


	6. Chapter 5

_It's buried deep within the past, and I hope it doesn't last_  
_(It's something I already chase, I already chase)_  
_I try to give it all away, but it's never gonna fade_  
_(It's something I don't wanna face, I don't wanna face)_  
-”My Heartstrings Come Undone” Demon Hunter

Wing was waiting for Ratchet the next time. He looked exhausted; the reds in his plating seemed dull and faded. His plating shook when when he motioned for Ratchet to follow him. When he spoke his voice was hoarse. 

“We’re running out of time. His systems have been trying to purge, but I’ve managed to stop them. At least for the time being, but I don’t know how much longer I can hold him together.”

He looked at Ratchet, brow knitted with concern. The tatter of Wing’s EM field Ratchet could catch was deeply sad and apologetic.

“Do you know how long?”

Wing shook his head and stumbled. Ratchet caught him, grabbing his upper arm and holding him steady until until he wasn’t in danger of falling over. He was disturbingly light. He pushed off from Ratchet and continued to trudge forward, determined to lead Ratchet to the next fragment.

“We aren’t collecting the pieces fast enough. Do you have anyone that could help you? Someone else who was close to Drift?”

Ratchet frowned as the thought.

“Rodimus, I suppose, they were thick as theives, but I don’t want him near Drift,” he said as he browplates furrowed together into his trademark scowl. “And he hasn’t had any medical training beyond the mandatory first aid that’s part of basic.”

“Honestly, I think what matters more is that you are close to him. Otherwise, I don’t think you would be able to feel what we’re looking for. But why don’t you want him near him?”

“He banished Drift. I don’t know how much you know, but there were some things that happened; essentially a very powerful Decepticon named Overlord was on our ship and got loose. Drift took the blame for it.”

“You don’t think he did it, do you?” Wing asked, looking at Ratchet knowingly.  
Ratchet sighed.

“I don’t know. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t, but even if he did I don’t think he could have done it alone. The only others I know of that had a hand in it died shortly after the the voyage began. I’m just saying I think there is more here than what I know.”

“Perhaps.”

Ratchet narrowed his optics at Wing’s cryptic response, but was ignored. 

“Come on, I’ve located another piece you need to take back.”

Wing guided Ratchet to the appropriate memory. It appeared as a small glowing orb, faintly yellowed around the edges and no bigger than both of Wing’s fists pressed together. 

It brought them to the middle of a city, not quite Cybertronian, but not quite human either. It was an oddly appealing mesh of the two. The human influence gave the buildings twisting organic shapes that were not usually part of Cybertronian architecture. Metallic bricks had been welded together in a beautiful display of silver and copper. Acid etchings in the metal created fascinating organic patterns that softened the edges of the harsher Cybertronian influences.

It had the bustle of a large town or perhaps a small city. Ratchet frowned when he couldn’t detect which direction to go in. It was like there was a dull itch all the way around him, rather than a single thread he could follow.

“I can’t pinpoint anything,” he grumbled to Wing.

Mechs parted naturally around them and reformed into a few paces away as bustling crows do. No one looked their way until a small, tan coloured, canine symboint with medic’s crosses ran into Wing’s legs and nearly knocked him over. 

“Watch where you’re going, rust for brains, you nearly knocked him over.”

A dull yellow mechanoid symboint, also with a medic’s cross on his shoulders, popped out of nowhere and cuffed the other on the shoulder, although there was no real power behind it. 

“I’m sorry, Sir, but we’re running a little late and our boss is waiting on us.”

The little canine mech’s audial flaps and tail drooped in apology.

Wing smiled down at them.

“Don’t worry; no harm’s been done. Although, could you tell us where you’re off to in such a hurry? Is there something going on?”

“Oh, yes! The Tower Ball is going on and it’s been opened to everyone! Our cohort is serving as medical assistance this year - it’s a real honor, you know?”

The mechling puffed out his chest and the canine stood to attention, obviously proud of the positions they held.

“There’s also going to be a dance competition. One of the Tower Lords promised to give his puzzle ring as a prize to whomever can dance dust out of a slab of stone. You both should come, it’s going to be a grand party-”

It was hard to tell who said what at some points, the pair of symbionts talking over one another or finishing the other’s sentence. The chattered on:

“There’s going to be food-”

“And games-”

“And all sorts of fancy mechs”

“You can follow us if you’d like.”

They looked at the bigger mechs expectantly.

“What do you think?” Ratchet quietly asked Wing.

“I think it would be a good place to start looking.”

Ratchet nodded. They followed the symbionts, who had been waiting fairly patiently for them to finish talking, through the town to a large amphitheater that was decorated festively in bright blues and mossy greens. They waved them off at the gates where their carrier, a medium orange and white rotary mech, and cohort was waiting for them. They watched him squat down to talk to his symbionts for a moment, before waving to Wing and Ratchet and leading his cohort inside. It was a bizarre level of trust Ratchet had not witnessed since well before the war. Even within Autobot camps, newcomers who were fellow autobots were generally regarded with some level of suspicion after their arrival.

“They were cute,” Wing said as he leaned on Ratchet while they waited in the line to enter what lay beyond.

“Of course you would,” Ratchet grumbled and rolled his optics.

By the time they got through the line, Ratchet was sure this was where they were supposed to go. The _itch_ of what they needed to find was everywhere. 

He spent several hours fruitlessly looking through the crowd before he circled back to the bench where he left Wing. He was glad the mech was looking a bit better; he didn’t seem quite so ephemeral anymore. The white jet was sitting still, back straight, helm slightly bowed, and legs crossed so he could balance on the bench without falling off until Ratchet tapped one of his nacelles. He looked up from his meditation without flinching.

“Did you find anything?”

“Not yet,” Ratchet said with a frown, “Nothing has stood out yet, but we’re in the right area.”

He sat down next to Wing and waited in silence, until he felt a stronger pull. A mech with a Noble’s ornate plating passed in front of them, a small box in his hand.

“He has something important,” he whispered.

“The ring, Ratchet, remember the ring those symbionts told us about, the prize for the dance contest? I bet that’s it.”

He nudged him, “You have to enter it.”

“Me? I haven’t danced in ages,” he hissed back.

“You have to try. I can help”

After several hours of trying to get Ratchet to dance, he wasn’t so sure. The medic hadn’t danced since before the war, when he still mostly worked for the Senate, and now he was so self conscious his movements were stiff and awkward; definitely not good enough to win a competition of any sort. Wing slid down in the dust where Ratchet was panting. He wiggled his hips to get comfortable and sighed when he felt grit scratch under his plating. It was somewhere between gross and comforting; it reminded him of the sands that covered New Crystal City.

He jabbed Ratchet in the shoulder with his index finger to get the medic’s attention. 

“You know what? I’ll enter the competition and distract them; you steal the ring for in case I don’t win. No offense, but I don’t even think you will hold their interest enough to stay in the competition for long.”

Ratchet protested, even after Wing outlined his plan. He’d planned to steal the ring from the beginning, just in case. He assured the other mech that he felt well enough to perform, although he felt it was more of a matter of need and would have done it regardless of how he felt. 

Ratchet reluctantly left Wing sprawled on the ground while he snuck toward the tent where the contest prizes were being held. The contest was starting shortly.  
All in all, it worked surprisingly well. Mechs danced on a large creme rock in the middle of the courtyard, but none of them danced even a speck of dust out of the stone no matter how hard the stomped, until Wing. Ratchet watched him from the prize tent. The red and white knight, scruffy compared to the gleaming plating of the previous competitors, stood proud, moving slowly and gracefully to the tempo of the music, pedes stepping right in front of each other. He turned on one pedetip, stretching his other leg straight out behind him as he leaned forward and extended his wings; he trembled faintly, the vibration carrying down the gentle curve of his wing. The music suddenly changed with the trill of an organic flute, the tune becoming rollicking and lively. Wing snapped his wings back into a tight tuck against his and used the momentum of his leg coming down to neatly flip himself. 

Everyone looked stunned at the small puff of dust that appeared when he landed. Wing spun himself faster to hide his grin and shook more dirt out from under his plating as he seemingly danced a cloud of dust from the stone.

Ratchet almost chuckled. _Crafty little bugger._

He snatched the ring and hid it in his subspace while everyone watched wide opticed at Wing’s spectacle. He moved to the front of the crowd where the jet was being cheered on by many. When Wing finished his dance, he bowed with a flamboyant flourish. 

He grinned at Ratchet and his smile grew larger, if possible, when Ratchet mouthed “Got it” to him. He jumped over the rope that marked off the performing area to Ratchet after saluting the nobles and looped his arm through the medic’s so he could pull him through the crowd.

“We need to leave before they notice anything,” he said lowly; Ratchet read his lips, more than he heard his words. 

It took far longer than they wanted to fight their way through the crowd, the mechs stopping to congratulate Wing only made it harder. Wing pulled him out of the festival and into the city. They walked arm in arm, swift enough to put distance between them but not so fast as to draw attention. He let Wing herd him into an alleyway and through a portal that led them back into the in between space. When Wing let go of his arm he held his hand out for the ring. Ratchet passed it to him and watched him inspect it.

Wing chuckled as he grabbed one of Ratchet’s hands in his frigid one and slid the silver and copper ring onto a red finger. 

“Ratchet, I think it’s his sense of humor.”

The sensors in his medic’s hands prickled as the rings energy snapped at them. He thumbed it, spinning it slowly around his finger before dimming his optics. It nudged insistently at him before he allowed it to download. It tickled like static as it crackled its way through him to make his vents sudder. He rolled his shoulders and looked to Wing.

Wing patted Ratchet on the shoulder.

“I know you care about him, but don’t you think you should give this Rodimus fellow a second chance?”

++++

It was official; he was going insane. He was here at the request of a ghost that for all he knew could be a figment of Drift’s (or even his, all things considered) imagination. This was unbelievably stupid, not to mention completely illogical. Part of him recoiled from it, but he squashed those feelings down. He made himself to come to terms this wasn't a job he could do alone anymore.

Ratchet paced the hallway leading to Rodimus’ office before forcing himself to stop in front of the door. His biolights gave away his agitation; they pulsed brightly before dimming away to a smouldering red before repeating the pattern. He gritted his denta for a moment before pinging the door for entry. He crossed his arms and stood rigidly while he waited.

“You can come in.”

The door hissed as it slid open to reveal Rodimus sitting at his desk, cheek propped on one fist as he slowly filled out reports with this other hand. 

“Ratchet! How might I help out our CMO today?”

The door snicked shut.

“I need to speak with you about Drift.”

Ratchet watched as Rodimus’ cheerful demeanor slipped and became serious. He sat his stylus down with a quiet click and turned off the datapad he was currently working on.

“Is something wrong?” he asked quietly.

Ratchet backed up and summarized what was going on, so Rodimus would understand his next request. He didn’t mention Wing; he would explain him if Rodimus agreed to help.

“We’re running out of time; I’ve done what I can, but there is too much information for one mech to retrieve alone. I’m asking you because you were his friend.”

He paused, looking into Rodimus’ optics until he looked way. His EM field flared briefly with shame before getting it under control.

Ratchet continued, “You should know helping me is not without risks. If he does a memory dump while we are in there, there’s no coming back.”

“I’ll help,” Rodimus said almost immediately. 

They decided Rodimus would help out the next morning. He had a few things he needed to wrap up, particularly alerting Magnus that he would be stand in captain until Rodimus was no longer needed. Ratchet explained the procedure they would need to do, and some of the side effects of file retrieval he learned the hard way, before excusing himself and walking to Perceptor’s lab. He asked Perceptor to make a duplicate cord. His request was met with suspicion.

“If all goes well you’ll know soon enough, I promise.”

Percy regarded Ratchet skeptically before agreeing to make another, despite not knowing its intended use.

++++

First Aid helped Rodimus hook up to the equipment after waltzing into the medbay and flashing Ratchet and his assistants a cocky grin.

“We gonna do this or what?”

“Give me a moment. I’m going in first, I’ll wait for you and explain what we’re doing today.”

Even while laying on the berth as he waited for Ratchet, Rodimus fidgeted and bounced his leg. Impatient.

Ratchet grimaced as he sild the cold tines into the port at the back of his helm; it was nothing like file sharing with another mech. He keyed up the program that sent him into Drift’s processors and told First Aid to send Rodimus in a minute after he synced up. 

Wing wasn’t there waiting, but he knew he would find them soon. The plan was for Wing to take Ratchet to a fragment then lead Rodimus to another. He would stay with Rodimus to make sure he didn’t lose himself like Ratchet did the first time.

Rodimus groaned as he appeared by Ratchet.

“Why does it feel like my helm’s been stepped on by a dynobot? And how come you helm isn’t killing you?”

He held his hand over his eyes and squinted.

“Possibly because your consciousness is currently in a body that’s not its own. And I never said mine wasn’t hurting. You get used to it. This is apparently a common side effect; I’m assuming because neither of us have Mnemosurgeon coding.”

Rodimus grumbled as they walked around.

“Where are we?”

“You must be Rodimus.”

Rodimus tried to play off his startled jump with a smooth grin.

“You got that right, and who are you?”

“Wing, Rodimus; Rodimus, Wing,” Ratchet interrupted indicating each mech with a vague wave of his hand.

Wing offered his hand amiably, but gave Rodimus the same loose handshake he gave Ratchet. His dark eyes curved in amusement at Rodimus’ seeming bafflement. It was very different from the firm handshakes most Autobots gave or the formal forearm shake Cyclonus and Drift (and perhaps not so strangely, Tailgate) tended to favor. 

Ratchet left most of the explaining to Wing, who tolerantly indulged all of Rodimus questions, even the nonsense ones. He voiced his opinions a few times when his medical knowledge was called upon. By the end of the conversation, Rodimus seemed to have come to the conclusion that this was really awesome and was far too chipper about the whole thing. Wing motioned for them to follow while he and Rodimus continued their chatter. 

They didn’t have to walk far to find what Wing was sending Ratchet after. Before he let himself get pulled in he tapped Wing’s shoulder.

“Take care of him,” he said as he nodded at Rodimus, who was utterly fascinated with the lights that congregated around him. Wing gave him a look that said he’d do no less before leading Rodimus away.

This time the world in the memory did not seem strange. It looked like wild areas between the cities of Cybertron, perhaps somewhere in the Manganese Mountains, although Ratchet had no idea why Drift would have been there. He had only seen them in image captures himself.

He was in a narrow valley; the mountains on either side of him stretch so high he could not see what lay around the bend at the end of the valley.

He noticed something moving in the shadows ahead of him. Drift slinked along in the shadows, sections of his white armor obscured by something black - soot? He paused a moment to draw one of the short swords at his waist. 

Something rumbled deep and threatening as Drift rounded the corner out of Ratchet’s line of sight. Ratchet quickened his step to follow. Something screamed like an enraged animal and a flash of blue flame shot into the air.

He rounded the corner.

A massive black cyberdragon crouched in front of a cave. Drops of hot blue plasma dripped from its mouth and hissed against the ground. When it sucked air in to breath fire, blue light lit up under its plating like starlight. It snarled at Drift, the orangy-red band it had instead of optics full of hatred. Drift snarled back; fierce as the warrior he truly was. 

When Ratchet moved to back Drift up, the creature fixed him with a glare, and he realized he could no longer move. His feet felt like they were welded to the ground and his body felt like it had been filled with lead. The beast whipped its head back to Drift and bared its teeth and snapped at him. The white mech dodged by tucking into a roll. As he came out if it, he used his momentum to spin himself around and slash a shallow cut across the dragon’s shoulder. 

They fought, trading blows until the dragon was covered in gashes and its plating glowed with spilt energon and Drift’s white plating turned grey from being singed. A long slash from sharp claws across the front of his chest dribbled energon down his belly and slicked the inside of his thighs as it dripped through his pelvic armour. It seemed like they could have gone on forever, until Drift dodged a little too slowly, his ankle twisting awkwardly. A thick tail whipped around and knocked his feet out from under him. The beast’s jaws clamped around his shoulder. It shook its head and Drift screamed. His plating squealed as it was torn from his body or crushed under the bite. He’s dropped so the beast can grab him around them middle; he’s shaken like a rag doll until he hangs loose and bloody in the beast's jaws. 

Ratchet felt like he was going to be sick and wrenched himself free of whatever held him in place. This time he finds he has his blaster in his subspace. The cyberdragon growled at him, dropping Drift’s limp form as it sucked in air to breath fire at Ratchet. 

The first shot went too wide and arced over the monster’s shoulder. 

Ratchet forced himself to pause enough to get a good stance. He aimed at its eyes - a quick shot to the brain module to kill it efficiently and insure its death, but his hands were shaking. He berated himself for it; his hands haven’t shaken like this in a long time, but he unloaded the clip anyway. The kickback made him grit his denta as it stung the sensors in his hands.

The dragon howled as it sank to the ground. Plasma spittle and air whistled from a hole in its throat where one of Ratchet’s shots hit its mark. Another seared through its cheek and another blacked the side of its helm. Even from where he was, Ratchet could smell its fetid breath. It locked eyes and died with a death rictus twisting its lips.

Ratchet got the feeling he hadn’t won. He shuffled down to Drift’s side. He was still. Energon congealed on his shredded chest plate. The holes down to his spark chamber from the bite wounds were dark. Ratchet shuttered his optics; his vents stuttered. 

Something called to him from the cave. He flirted with the idea of not going. He resented being made helpless in being able to aid Drift. In the end the compulsion was too strong and walked into the cave. What he saw made something dark bubble in his chest. He had seen a lot of terrible things in his long life, and perhaps this was not the worst, but this wasn’t something he was going to forget for a long time. Nine helms sat a neat line against one of the walls. Their optics were removed, scratched messily from their sockets, and some of them still had ragged neck tubing attached under their chins. They were all Drift’s. 

Different incarnations - one from the first time Ratchet saw him, when he was still a street bot. One looked like the one he had on earth and another Ratchet assumed was from his rebuild from New Crystal City. The rest were from Deadlock. He recognized them by the dark plating above the brow and rounded cheek guards. They were mutilated worse than the others. Some of soft silicon that covered facial protoform had been torn away on some to reveal Decepticon fangs. One’s helm was half crushed in and the finials bent. One of them had its jaw torn off. 

Ratchet traced the cheek guard of the one that looked like it was from Earth. His throat clicked as he swallowed and willed himself not to feel. He picked them up and took them out of the cave. Something felt right about that. He was carrying out the last one - the one from earth - and about to set it with the rest when the slack mouth dropped open. Something fell out and clinked against the ground. 

Ratchet picked it up; it was a piece of spark casing with a purplish sheen, smelted into smooth lump. This was what he came for. It felt heavy in his hand like the weight of a past life. He uploaded so he could take it back and immediately wished he had buffered it first. If he thought the first one was bad, that held a pale candle to this. This felt like someone poured acid into his helm and it burned all the way down to his spark. It forced him to his knees when his vision whited out. When the download stopped he could still feel it throbbing through his body. The sense of something calling him was gone and he was more than happy to leave.

++++

Ratchet faded back to the Inbetween. He staggered a step, exhausted and aching, but victorious. He got another piece and it was a big one. Perhaps not necessarily a good one, but he could feel its weight in his mind from where he downloaded it and when he nudged it, the fuzzy pins-and-needles pain turned bright and smarting. He shook his head and swayed, arms coming out until he could regain his balance.

“Over here” he heard Wing call from where he could see a dim light.

Wing met him halfway; Rodimus was crouched with his head in his hands and his biolights were low and rippling in patterns that indicated distress. 

“Rodimus?”

“Give me a minute.”

His trembling was easy to notice due to the sheen of his plating and the way it reflected light. Ratchet dropped to one knee and touched his shoulder. Rodimus looked over his shoulder at him with pale optics. 

“Here,” he said abruptly and shoved a dagger into Ratchet’s servos and snatched his back like the object burned him. 

The dagger is old and the grip is worn into the shape of someone else’s fingers. It’s balanced for someone else's hands, but even Ratchet could appreciate the craftsmanship. The blade is still wickedly sharp, although it is not a fighting tool. It’s tarnished and the whorled patterns on the flat of the blade from its forging are black with age. There are dark pinkish energon stains crusted around the guard.

Ratchet stared at the remnant Rodimus brought back it slowly disintegrate as he downloaded its information and shunted it away for later. He hissed a vent as his joints seized and his plating snapped close to his body in preparation for an attack in reaction to the whiplash of pain that flashed across his neural net. 

“What the frag was that?” he manages to wheeze.

Rodimus pointedly ignored him. Wing shook his head- not now- but he gripped his forearms in a comforting squeeze. He looked as haggard as Ratchet felt. He seemed to have faded even further in the time it took them to gather these two fragments. Wing leaned on him for a moment, head bowed forward so it rested against a blocky red trimmed shoulder.

“You need to go back,” he whispered without meeting Ratchet’s optics.

Before Ratchet could protest he felt himself getting sucked back into his own consciousness. It’s still disorienting, but it’s not as bad as the first few times. He managed to sit up in time to see First Aid patting Rodimus on the back as he retched into the waste receptacle they had learned to keep at hand.

Something small and vicious in Ratchet was pleased that he managed not to purge as he watched Rodimus void the contents of his tanks. He slid his legs off the berth he was on, grabbing on to the edge as he unsubbspaced a rag and passed it to Rodimus when he was through heaving half-processed energon and spitting out the acrid remnants in an effort to rid his mouth of the taste. Ratchet turned to leave; First Aid could take care of Rodimus; all he wanted was to drop into recharge or maybe make the blasted headache go away so he can see straight. His vision fuzzed out around the edges. And maybe refuel when his tanks stopped rolling.

He had almost made it back to his room when he heard footsteps behind him.

“Hey, wait up!” 

He turned and waited for Rodimus to step even with him.

“What do you want?”

“What the frag was that?”

“What do you mean?” Ratchet asked tiredly as he crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, “I suppose the easiest way to explain it’s somewhere between a memory and a story. It’s just a platform so we can easily locate the files to rebuild Drift’s archives, granted it’s not working exactly how I thought it would, but it’s better than nothing.” 

Rodimus’ armor was slicked down as close to his body as he could manage; however, he seemed to have managed to get his biolights to a controlled ambiance, since he was no longer in the relative safety of the medbay. 

Ratchet heaved a sigh and pushed off from the wall.

“Come on, the hall is no place for this conversation.”

When Rodimus followed he walked close enough for Ratchet to feel like he was going to trip over him. He growled his engine irritably and his captain thankfully backed off. Not much, but enough that Ratchet didn’t feel the compulsive need to whirl around and smack him for being underfoot quite as strongly. 

He palmed the I.D. scanner for his habsuite and let Rodimus in ahead of him before making sure the door closed properly and turning the lights up to something beside the dim glow he kept them at to keep from tripping on the spill-over clutter from the medbay when he returned at night. 

Rodimus stood in the middle of the room looking lost until Ratchet retrieved his only chair from his desk and drug it over for him to sit in. Ratchet sat on his berth. The seating in his habsuite was limited; he couldn’t remember the last time he had company and really didn’t spend much time in his habsuite other than to sleep, so he didn’t see the use in having extra seating for guests. 

“What did you see?” he asked, voice low and commanding; there was no point in beating around the bush.

Rodimus’ mouth pulled into a frown and he looked down, and fiddled with the gun barrels on his forearms before answering. 

“I killed him.”

Yellow and red plating flattened in horror and optics brighted to nearly white. His mouth opened and closed a few times before he continued, words spilling out in a rush.

“There was a city and a sparkeater and I didn’t believe him. The people were dying. He was acting funny, but told me it was nothing to worry about and then we found him with energon spattered all over him. I thought it was him.”

His voice hitched before continuing more slowly, voice crackling with static, “I thought it was him. He trusted me and I killed him… He didn’t even fight or try to stop me, just gave me this sad smile and let me do it. And then we found the sparkeater.”

Rodimus buried his face in his hands and his spoiler drooped so low it was almost hidden behind his back. 

“It was dead; he killed it, so we wouldn’t have to,” his voice was muffled by his palms. 

Loyalty, something in the back of Ratchet;s head whispered, and in an off handed way he realized what the dagger stood for. 

He watched Rodimus for awhile, face nearly expressionless. He was still angry with Rodimus for banishing Drift, despite the captain seeming contrite and to truly regret his decision; which was something he had to continually remind himself, so he could deal with Rodimus. He was tired and hurting and, quite frankly, didn’t want to comfort Rodimus or anyone else at the moment; maybe when it didn’t feel like his brain module wasn’t several sizes to large for his helm, but right now he didn’t want to be conscious for at least a few hours. He scrambled for something to say; mind fumbling to come up with something that didn’t sound like utter bilge slag.

In the end, he settled for resting his hand on Rodimus shoulder and giving it a squeeze to regain his attention.

“We’ll figure out how to get him back, one way or another.”

++++

Ratchet was working in the medbay the next morning when he heard more than felt something in his helm pop with a surprisingly high sounding _pink!_

The sound reverberated through his helm before before pain flared behind his optics. It was agony; like someone was prodding his central processors and brain module with a hot poker. He didn’t make a sound as he hunched forward and shuttered his optics. He stood still for while, unwilling to move. 

“Ratchet? You’re bleeding!”

Ambulon sounded worried as he rushed across the medbay and laid a steadying hand on his boss’ arm. 

Energon oozed from Ratchet’s olfactory sensor and dripped to his chestplate. Unthinkingly, he licked his lips; it was hot and faintly metallic from running through his fuel lines. 

“I’m fine.”

He snapped as he waved his assistant off. He wasn’t going to keel over and the hovering just pissed him off. He despised being treated like he was something fragile almost above all else. 

“Ratchet, you need to think about what you’re doing. I’m fairly certain this is the result of the thing with Drift.”

He interpreted the tone as patronizing and glared at Ambulon. 

“Look what it’s doing to you! I know you care about him, and that’s an admirable thing, but not at the expense of yourself. Other people are counting on you too, even if you don’t care about your own welfare.”

“I can do this,” he said as he wiped the energon that was trickling sluggishly from his olfactory sensor with the back of his hand. It was thick and clung the sensitive plating as it clotted and cooled.

“Where is the line, Ratchet? When his forcing him to live not worth the quality of life he will have to endure? Will he actually have a life or will he have to rely on other for his care? He’s a warrior, Ratchet, you know that. Forcing him to live in helplessness is more of a cruelty than a kindness. Don’t you think death may be a mercy at this point?” 

Ambulon’s voice was not raised, but just barely, trying not to shout at his boss. His plating was clamped close to his body. This was not an argument he made lightly and it still bothered him a little to make it. But it was necessary. Ratchet didn’t seem to know when a situation was hopeless. If there was no hope of Drift waking, it would be kinder to put his spark to rest, as cruel as it sounded. If his mind was truly gone, then they were just forcing a body to stay alive and that wasn’t healthy for anyone. He had a pledge of duty to take care of others and he couldn’t watch his infuriatingly stubborn commanding officer fall apart over one patient. He prayed he was making the right judgement.

“You can’t save everyone, Ratchet.”

Ratchet snorted, like that wasn’t a fact he knew too well. Didn’t mean he was giving up either.

“One last try,” Ratchet rasped as he clutched the side of the counter and looked Ambulon in the optics, “Give me one more try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got this chapter up; not completely happy with it, but such as life. On the bright side, the next two chapters I'm super excited two write cause I've been waiting to write them since the first chapter.


	7. Chapter 6

_If I were a monster,_  
_Would you wince when you looked at me?_  
_If I were a freak, would you stare?_  
_If I were a leper, would you say unclean?_  
_If I was lost, would you help me get free?_  
\- “Monster” The Almost

“One last try” turned into two, and then three. He and Rodimus managed to capture a few more pieces as Wing grew weaker and weaker; the next would probably be the last - that thought left Ratchet cold, but his processors simply weren’t meant to sort through the massive influx of data, much less store it, even for a short stint of time.

It took its toll on him, as much as he hated to admit it. Some of his smaller systems continually overheated or shut down, and he rebooted them several times of day because of the energy being rerouted to compress the billions of files that made up Drift’s memory core. Sometimes it left him dizzy and he had to stop walking until his optics refocused and his vision stopped tilting. Sometimes he held his vents until he was out of hearing range of others, so they couldn't hear them rattle.

The insomnia kept recharge at bay. His thoughts constantly roiled like a colony of swarming scraplets. On the nights he slept, he awoke to energon crusted down his face in the morning and the small vents in his olfactory sensor rimed with pink. The back of his intake tasted like gore until he downed his breakfast.

While the _Lost Light_ never truly slept, the off shift meant it was much quieter than normal while the main crew recharged. He meandered through the corridors like a sleepwalker; moving for the sake of movement because he couldn’t make himself slow down enough to rest. After tossing around in his berth for several hours, he resigned himself to being exhausted the next day. 

He peeped in the medbay. It was the same as it always was at this time - dark with the exception of the lights from the secondary office of whomever was on duty. He believed it was Hoist’s turn. The only noticeable noise was the steady blipping from Drift’s spark monitor; the other instruments’ whirrs and rumbles had long since faded into the background and went virtually unheard.

The lights in the hallways were dimmed enough they didn’t hurt his aching optics and aggravate the headache that had become his constant companion in the past few days. He paused at the door to one of the small lounges where mechs who didn’t want to eat in Swerve’s or the large mess hall on one of the lower decks. A warm light from inside made the doorway glow invitingly. 

Rung sat at one of the booths reading a datapad; he faced the door, but didn’t notice Ratchet until his knee cracked when he stepped to move on.

“Ratchet, what are you doing up? Your shift ended awhile ago.”

He blinked owlishly as he processed the question.

“Can’t sleep,” he grumbled.

Rung hummed sympathetically.

“Would you like to sit?” 

He moved over from sitting in the center of the booth and patted the spot beside him. Ratchet almost rolled his optics at the gesture, but he slid in beside Rung and draped his arm across the back of the booth in a quiet invitation for Rung to scoot closer.

Like racing frames, mechs like Rung or Rewind had a hard time keeping warm, only their problems stemmed from not creating enough heat in the first place. Their lack of a true engine often meant they relied on external sources to keep their frames at comfortable temperatures. Rung kept his office several degrees warmer than the rest of the ship for a good reason.

Ratchet didn’t say anything when the smaller mech tucked himself comfortably against his side. As a medic frame, he tended to run on the warm side to keep all of his systems in optimum condition, especially his internal equipment that manufactured temperature sensitive substances - be it medicines or emergency glue to patch someone back together long enough to get to a real welder. 

Rung went back to reading and Ratchet tilted his helm against the back of the booth and almost dozed. He was still too restless to sleep, but the gentle prickle of an EM field against his was soothing, as well as the swirling shadows cast by the massive window at their backs. He shuddered his optics and let the comfortable weight of a friend at his side lull his thoughts. Some of the joints in his legs hissed a little as they released pressure. 

The silence between them was companionable and only interrupted by Rung’s contented sigh or the thrum of Ratchet’s heavy duty systems. 

Eventually, Rung turned off his datapad and leaned back. He stayed quiet for a little longer, just watching the shadows. 

“So, how’s Drift?”

Ratchet rebooted his optics and watched the ceiling. He thought for a long moment.

“Same as ever, I suppose.”

He rubbed at the bridge of his olfactory sensor before continuing, suddenly feeling the need to elaborate when Rung stayed quiet, “The war’s killed so many of us, Rung. So many we don’t even know how many of us are actually dead. Did you know that? The death counts are just estimates, not actual numbers. No one knows how many we’ve lost. I’m a doctor, for Primus’ sake; it’s my job to heal people and I’ve already let him down once. I - I can’t.”

He stopped himself from finishing, _“I can’t lose him too.”_

He usually didn’t spill his guts like this, unless he’d had a little too much to drink and let it slip. He bottled things up, shoved them down, and ignored them. It was how things worked; he didn’t have time to introspect every death on his hands or every horrible thing he saw. There was always so much to do, and for the most part his feelings didn’t belong with them. He knew in some distant, theoretical way that it wasn’t healthy, but it had worked for him so far, for the most part. 

Rung just sat there, calmly with that gentle, non judging smile on his faceplate, waiting for Ratchet to say what he needed. He had this quiet, unobtrusive way of drawing the stuff he usually bottled up out of him without the use of engex. Some of it had to do with his profession, and the rest was intrinsic to his character.  


_Cheater_ , the medic wanted to accuse, although there was no ire behind it. Anything to change the subject.

Rung smiled at Ratchet knowingly and patted his hand.

“You love him, don’t you? That’s what this is about.”

Ratchet swallowed and couldn’t meet Rung’s optics. Instead, he stared at the table, suddenly interested in the subtle marbled pattern on the top. He felt like someone had taken a can opener to his gut. 

He didn’t want to think about it; if he thought about it too much then it would be true and then it would have power over him, and yet he couldn't pretend. Not anymore, even if only to himself. This was not about proving he was an excellent doctor. This was well beyond something he would normally do for a patient. He couldn’t hide behind the excuse he was Drift’s physician and he wondered when the white mech had begun to mean something more than just another patient he kept fixed up. More than a friend.

He’d never known he’d mean so much.

And, and if this was love, it wasn’t the kind of love that younglings talk about. It wasn’t the kind depicted in Orion’s cheesy romance novels. It doesn't make his tanks flip-flop or his spark flutter. 

This was the kind of love that was terrible and he ached with it, for it sat heavy in his chest, just below his spark. It wasn’t something out of a silly tale. Loving Drift meant getting too attached. It meant he cared about him in more than a professional way; that losing him would hurt deeply. Much more than he wanted to bear. But, he also supposed, perhaps the he could take the risk this time, if Drift woke up. 

He crossed his arms and hunched himself over as he glowered at Rung, who gave him a smug look and Ratchet knew his silence was more telling than his words ever would be. 

Rung nudged at him until he stood. When he moved out, Ratchet sunk back down into his seat, staring aimlessly at the wall until he felt a gentle tap on one of his headlights. 

“Well, I’m going to call it a night. You should too and get some sleep if you can.” 

He stayed there for a few more minutes after Rung’s footsteps faded down the corridor, thinking about the conversation he’d had. He just wanted Drift back, and maybe... maybe he would tell him. 

++++

This was his last chance - he could almost feel it in his struts. Ratchet saw how things were deteriorating; memories bleeding out of their proper places and creating a messy mosaic where there was once only darkness. Faded splotches shifted around from leftover, fragmented data. Faceless spectres of mechs moved in the shadows, making them ripple in uncanny ways. They murmured unintelligible things just out of Ratchet’s hearing.  


He wandered alone for awhile. Rodimus had an emergency to deal with; when the _Lost Light_ stopped at a port to let the mechs aboard stretch their legs a little, a misunderstanding with the locals had called a Galactic Council ship in local orbit down on their heads. Thankfully, beyond a little property damage, no one had been hurt, but both Ultra Magnus and Rodimus were needed to resolve the situation.  


Ratchet rolled his optics upon hearing about it; these mechs would never learn.  


The little orbs of light from earlier times turned to fuzzy after images.  


He froze, realizing the only sounds were those from his own pedes until he heard the rhythmic pounding of running feet.  


Wing came shimmering out of the darkness.  


“Run!” he shouted at Ratchet.  


He saw him dodge something in the darkness before heeding the warning.  


He ran, pedes slapping the ground and feeling the impact echo all the way up his leg struts. The rumble of jet engines behind him let him know Wing wasn’t far behind.  


He spared a moment to risk a look over his shoulder. His tanks dropped when something dark knocked Wing to the ground and pushed him into one of the remaining memories. Wing grappled with it for a moment, the dull light sticking to him like water, before the tide sucked him under and he disappeared into it.  


Whatever chased him’s full attention was now on Ratchet. _Click, click click_ \- he heard footsteps tick against the ground, coming closer.  


A large cyberwolf, mostly gunmetal grey and black, save for the white armour on its chest and forelegs and a few yellow highlights stepped out of the shadows. Its red optics glowed, vicious and eerily intelligent for the creature they belonged to.  


It looked much bigger than the cyberwolves Ratched remembered seeing at one of the zoos Wheeljack drug him to sometimes back in their university years. It was easily twice size of the ones he’d seen. Its legs were thicker, more powerful. Its head was broader with an equally heavy jaw, more like it was meant for crushing through metal struts than tearing off top armor. Its large, blunt claws clicked quietly, but he knew they were no less dangerous than a cougaraider’s razor sharp ones. Everything about it screamed apex predator.  


It seemed to consider Ratchet for a few moments, cocking its head to the side and growled, low and threatening. Ratchet suppressed his shudder as cold fear raced across his neural net and he fought the instinct to turn his back and run.  


It surged at him, and Ratchet hunched forward, narrowly dodging the snapping maw to catch the beast low in its chest and causing it to bounce of his shoulder.  


It spun, lips bared in a snarl and lunged for his face. This time, Ratchet wasn’t so lucky; he managed to block the attack with his forearm, stumbling back from the weight, but he felt fangs catch, then puncture through his armor. Heavy paws caught his thigh and pulled him down. The medic screamed hoarsely when it gave its head a vicious shake and tore part of the top plate from its hinges. He clapped his hand to the wound in an automatic reaction to staunch the hot flow of energon that dribbled from torn lines.  


The crumpled red plating clattered to the ground after it was crunched in strong jaws for for a few moments as the beast circled Ratchet, calculating, trying to decide where to attack next. A thin trail of saliva strung from its lips, pinkened with Ratchet’s energon, before they twitched upwards, revealing sharp, equally pink teeth.  


It sprung again, this time aiming for one of his sensitive hands. Ratchet snarled back when he felt sharp fangs leave stinging scrapes over his knuckles. He pivoted his hips and used his weight to drive his fingers into the soft tubing at the back of its intake.  


It dropped to all fours, gagging and retching. It hacked a final cough and shook its body from snout to tail tip. It glared at Ratchet. It began to circle him again, more wary of its prey this time.  


Ratchet absentmindedly wiped viscous saliva onto his side as he turned with it; he wasn’t going to give it a chance to get at his back.  


It menaced him, nipping at his legs and forcing him backwards until he tripped and it was on him before he could react. It savaged his shoulder, then was suddenly gone with a high pitched yelp.  


He struggled to push himself up, his injured arm dangling uselessly at his side. There was another cyberwolf attacking the dark one. The new one was thinner, more angular, than the first one and white with red edging on its plating. It tore into the first one, equally vicious despite its smaller size.  


They seemed fairly evenly matched. The larger one was stronger, but heavier, and tired from fighting with Ratchet. The white one was blade thin and driven to make the other submit.  


The noise from their fighting grew to a deafening crescendo. Flashing teeth. Animalistic screams as the tumbled over and over, rearing on their hind legs and front paws wrapping around each other, so they could tear at one another's throats and faces. Their bodies slamming together sounded like thunder. Momentarily it looked like the large one had the other pinned down, until the thin cyberwolf rabbit-kicked its back feet and left nasty, oozing scratches down the other’s abdomen.  


Ratchet winced despite himself when he heard the jaws crush the wrist of his former tormentor with a sharp pop of fangs through metal.  


It howled when the first one snapped down on a thin audial flap and shake its head. Glowing energon splattered the ground.  


Time stopped when the smaller one caught the other by the neck. It locked its jaws to keep from being thrown off, despite being thrashed against the ground, and chewed the armor until the thick, vital energon lines bulged and threatened to rupture.  


The large cyberwolf whined pitifully as it went down. It laid limply at the others feet, tilting its neck up in surrender and lapping at the other’s mouth when the thin one showed its teeth and nipped at it.  


They stared at each other for a long moment, communicating something that Ratchet could not understand, before the thin one bent and rested the top of its muzzle on torn neck plating. It huffed out a long sigh, before the sounds of a transformation sequence echoed through the space.  


It was strange - the cyberwolf did not change into something else; rather its plating fragmented and to split open, starting with its ribs and going backwards. Its legs crumpled like tinfoil and its armour spindled to where the first wolf lay on the ground. It slotted into gaps in the armour, building it up bigger and stronger - where white armor once only covered its chest, it now extended down its forelegs and bolstered its shoulders; heavy white plates edged in red spilled over its helm and down its back and a long fragments fixed its audials into sharp points.  


It was still damaged - energon trickled from a bite stretching from the base of its audial to halfway down its neck and long scratches down its belly.  


It craned its head backwards to see Ratchet, its optics were clear and blue. It gave a soft questioning wuff.  


He knew those optics. Words died in his vocalizer, he licked his lips and shuffled towards the beast as its body disintegrated and blew away like dandelion fluff to leave a battered, but familiar form in its wake.  


Ratchet pulled Drift into his lap and cradled his helm in the crook of his good arm.  


“Kid? Drift? Are you okay?”  


Trembling red fingers brushed over a scuffed cheek plate.  


A quiet groan.  


Drift tilted his face into the touch and covered Ratchet’s hand with his own to hold it in place. His sigh shuddered through his entire body and a barely-there smile graced his lips before he cracked an optic. Blue light shown tiredly through, illuminating the planes of his face. His voice crackled when he spoke.  


“You know, Ratch, I never thought I could ever be worth anything ‘till you said so.”  


“Kid... you were always worth something.” _Everything. You were brilliant, something special that rose from something horrible. Brave in ways I will never know. A survivor._  


“But you were the first to believe it.”  


A short huff of a laugh escaped Ratchet; he wasn’t really sure why, but it did. His chest suddenly felt to small for his spark and he had to squeeze his optics shut for a moment. He bent over and pressed his cheveron to Drift’s forehelm.  
Drift’s optics slid shut and he smiled as he hummed.  


They were quiet for several long moments, simply enjoying the precious heat from their plating touching.  


“Ratchet?”  


He made a questioning noise.  


“I don’t think I want to be alone anymore.”  


He sounded terrified and lowered his optics so he wouldn’t have to look Ratchet in the face.  


“Look at me.”  


Ratchet tapped his finger against Drift’s chin to make him look up again.  


“You don’t have to be,” he promised.  


Ratchet saw the moment Drift actually believed him. He looked at him like Rachet had offered him all the stars in the sky, his head raising a little off of Ratchet’s arm in surprise and his mouth slightly open in astonishment. He leaned back against the medic’s arm with a grin that lit up his whole face.  


“I never thought I’d be able to stop running, you know?”  


“Kid, you could have stopped a long time ago.”  


He laughed at Ratchet’s words as much as he cried at them, especially when Ratchet gently wiped his tears away with his thumb.  


It’s Ratchet’s turn to be startled when he felt a download open up to him. He accepted without hesitation; this was it! He had a moment to spare a victorious thought, before his world seemed to melt around him.  


He felt like he’s going to burst at the seams. His audials flared with heat and he couldn’t hear or see. It felt like molten ore replaced the fuel in his lines. Keeping another within himself was agony and it left him weak and trembling and he couldn't think for the burning in his head.  


A hand squeezing his shoulder brought him back to reality. He used it as an anchor to pull himself back. He shuttered his optics shut and vented air deeply into his systems to steady himself. His hand moved of its own volition to knot his fingers with charcoal grey ones. Wing.  


“Are you okay?”  


He manages to grimace out a smile, maybe if he can convince Wing he’s fine then he really will be.  


“You need to go,” he murmured as he pulled Ratchet to his feet.  


“I know. Were you there the whole time?”  


A shiney white head bobbed an affirmative, “For the most part.”  


“Aren’t you coming?”  


Ratchet sensed the edges of the world crumbling now that Drift was gone and held out his hand to Wing, prepared to accept his download. It would hurt, but he would deal with it. He could see where Wing was starting to fade. His red and white plating was beginning dull and he looked fuzzy around the edges. Wing was silent for a long moment before shaking his head slowly.  


“No. I’m going to stay here.”  


“What?!”  


Wing sighed, looking away before catching Ratchet’s optics.  


“I’ve been watching over Drift for a very long time and I am very, very tired, but you will watch over him now, won’t you?”  


Ratchet sputtered an affirmative, as if slightly offended the questioned had been asked. Of course he would!  


Wing smiled as he said, “Then he doesn’t need me anymore. I stayed because he needed me, I wasn’t meant to, but I did. I fear I was also part of the reason he can’t move on. He has you now, though, so I know he will be fine. My memories were some of the first you saved and my sword will still guide him. He will not forget me. Just this part of Wing, the fragment trapped in the Great Sword, can finally rest.”  


“Are you sure?”  


“Of course. I’ve thought about it a lot.”  


He paused and a faint smile twitched over his lips.  


“I guess I’ll finally get to see what’s next. And who knows, maybe I’ll see you guys on the other side. Not too soon, though,” he spoke seriously with a small frown.  


He moved forward embraced Ratchet, pressing his face into his neck.  


Ratchet wrapped his arms around him in return and hugged him tight. He felt soft and warm, not like a mech should be, and seemed to somehow weave himself around Ratchet completely. He felt a quick kiss pressed to the corner of his mouth, and Wing whispered his thanks to him; his lips tickled Ratchet’s cheek as he spoke. And then Wing was gone, fading into a warm light that Ratchet watched dissipate sadly. He realized now how much he was going to miss the jet. He was a good mech, and a friend he would never get to know.  


He whispered a thank you into the darkness, before he felt a familiar tugging in his mind that was calling him to return. He closed his optics...  


And let himself fall, pleased that this was the last time he would have to dig through Drift’s mind. He wondered about Wing’s parting words as he felt himself slip back into reality.  


_When you go back, make sure you give him a reason to wake up. Okay, Ratchet?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... It looks like Malady Mind's birthday was last month. I can't believe it's been over a year since I started this thing! Thank you to everyone for your encouraging words and kudos. They've meant a lot. =)
> 
> The next chapter will wrap up the story and we get to see our two favorite fools finally have a resolution.


End file.
